Shadows of Steel: A ShadowSuperman Adventure
by Niall Mor
Summary: It is 1938. Lamont Cranston, The Shadow, has been kidnapped. Only The Man of Steel can save The Master of Darkness, and only the two heroes together can save a nation on the brink of war!
1. Prologue

**Shadows of Steel: A Shadow/Superman Adventure**

**by**

**Niall Mor mac Liam**

**DISCLAIMER:** The Shadow was created by Walter B. Gibson and is copyrighted by Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc. Superman was created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster and is copyrighted by DC Comics, Inc. The characters of Matthias and Renfield Lane and Karl Dietrich are mine. This work of fan fiction is distributed free of charge solely for the enjoyment of the reading public and is not intended to infringe on these copyrights. All persons, places, and incidents used are fictitious or are used fictitiously.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Since The Shadow first appeared in his own magazine in 1931 and Superman first appeared in the June 1938 issue of _Action Comics_, this story takes place only a few months after The Man of Steel began appearing in the skies over Metropolis but several years after The Master of Darkness first haunted the streets of New York. My portrayal of The Shadow is not based on the 1994 feature film as much as it is a blend of the Walter B. Gibson pulp novels and the Shadow radio program which aired on the Mutual Broadcasting System from 1937-1954. Consequently, in this story Margo Lane's father is not a scientist, and Margo is not a blonde. Those readers so inclined may consider this an alternate universe story.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**Metropolis**

**November 1938**

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. The Metropolis Flyer is now arriving, Track 22."

The gleaming sleek, streamlined locomotive with the string of passenger cars behind it slid into Metropolis Station with a rumble of engines, a screech of brakes, and a rush of escaping steam that nearly drowned out the announcement over the public address system. After a moment, doors on the Pullman cars opened and passengers began to emerge. Among them was a stunning brunette in a simple black overcoat and hat. She carried only a single overnight bag. She stood in the doorway of the Pullman car, surveyed the scene before her anxiously, took a deep breath, and stepped from the car. She made her way quickly to the taxi stand where rows of gleaming yellow cabs were waiting.

"The _Daily Planet_ building, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

As the yellow Packard wound its way through the busy city streets, the woman leaned forward anxiously in her seat, straining for the first glimpse of the huge revolving brass and steel globe atop the skyscraper that was her destination. The sight of it filled her with the first hope she'd felt in days and also with a touch of fear. She didn't know what kind of reception she'd get here. She didn't know if she'd be welcome. She didn't know if she'd be believed. She didn't know if anyone could help.

* * *

Lois Lane sat hunched over her Underwood typewriter pounding out a story, a pencil between her teeth, a reporter's notebook at her side. She loved moments like this. The _Daily Planet_ was backing a young, progressive candidate for mayor. If she could finish her expose on corruption she'd uncovered in the current mayor's organization, it would mean a change for the better in city government and a juicy front page byline for her. In her imagination she was just accepting her Pulitzer when the buzz of her intercom snapped her back to reality. 

"Gertrude, I asked not to be disturbed! I'm on a very tight deadline here. Mr. White'll kill me if I don't get this in on time."

"I'm sorry, Miss Lane, but there's a young woman here to see you, and she won't take no for an answer. I tried to tell her you're very busy, but she says it's urgent, a matter of life and death, and . . . she's on her way up now."

Lois Lane groaned in frustration and turned towards her office door just as she heard a sharp rap on the frosted glass panel. Whoever this woman was, Lois thought, she'd give her a piece of her mind. The nerve of some people! She marched to the door, yanked it open, and stood transfixed by the person she saw there.

"Hello, Lois," said Margo Lane to her sister.

The meeting was not a happy one. The two daughters of the wealthy financier Matthias Lane had never really gotten along and hadn't spoken to one another for years. Lois, the younger, had a temperament as fiery as her red hair and quickly developed a reputation as something of a rebel, a tomboy, and a troublemaker. She despised the seemingly endless round of finishing schools, debutante balls, lawn parties, and charity events that made up the lives of her father's circle of friends. Margo, by contrast, had thrived on them. The striking brunette remained in New York as her father had wished and moved easily among the city's rich and powerful, where she met Lamont Cranston. Lois had moved to Metropolis and gone into journalism over her father's objections and struggled to make ends meet on a reporter's salary.

There was also the matter of a long ago rivalry for the affections of a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed young man that neither woman had been able to forget. He had begun that summer as Lois's beau, but by September he had Margo on his arm. As it turned out, the romance between Margo and Karl ended just a few months later, but Lois had never quite been able to forgive her sister.

"Hello, Margo," Lois replied stiffly. "Well, this is certainly a surprise! Won't you sit down?" she said, offering the one other chair in the tiny office without much enthusiasm. "I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but I'm really rather busy. Deadlines and all, you know. What's this all about, anyway?"

"Thanks, Lois," Margo said, taking the proffered chair, "I came because I need your help."

"My help? You never needed my help with anything before. Why don't you go to that rich dilettante you're always keeping company with? What's his name . . . Crandall, Cranford--"

"Cranston. His name's Lamont Cranston, and he's not a dilettante," Margo said, sniffling. Lois could see Margo was near tears, and for the first time she regretted being quite so cold.

"Look, Margo, I'm sorry I was so catty before," Lois said more gently, "I know there are some hard feelings between us, but let's let bygones be bygones, all right? What's this all about? Is it Lamont?

Margo nodded quickly. "Oh, Lois, he's missing! I don't know where he's gone or what's happened to him! I've checked with all his friends and acquaintances, and no one's seen him in days! If anything's happened to him, I'll never forgive myself!" she blurted.

"Oh, Margo, that's terrible," Lois answered, "but I still don't know how I can help. Can't you go to the police?"

"Well, yes, but you see . . ."

"See what?"

Margo stood up. "I think it might be your turn to sit down, Lois. There's something you should know about Lamont."

**End of Prologue**


	2. Chapter I: The Shadow Strikes

**CHAPTER I**

**The Shadow Strikes**

**New York**

**October 1938**

A chill autumn wind whipped down the deserted street in the dark, rundown Brooklyn neighborhood. Bits of trash, a page from an old newspaper, and a few dried, dead leaves scraped along the sidewalk, appeared momentarily in the fitful glow of a single street lamp, and then vanished into the darkness. A man in a grease-stained trench coat and a battered black Homburg hat gripped the coat more tightly about him and hurried down the street. No one stopped him on his errand. Most honest working people of the neighborhood were in bed at this hour of night, and as for the others, it was often better not to ask where they were bound.

Even the keenest observer might not have noticed anything amiss in the seconds after the man proceeded down the street. To all appearances, the avenue was once again deserted. In fact, however, a mysterious blackness was moving down the street in pursuit of the solitary figure. The blackness seemed to be almost darker than the night against which it moved, if such a thing could be imagined.

The blackness moved down the street and turned a corner. It paused and seemed to collect itself against the side of a building, briefly coalescing into a vaguely man-like shape. The darkness was a man. He was tall, but the details of his form and features, except for glittering black eyes, were concealed beneath a large slouch hat and billowing cloak. He was a man with uncanny abilities in the arts of stealth, disguise, and concealment, made even more formidable by his mastery of certain obscure mental disciplines learned in the distant reaches of the Orient years before. His true name was not known to the underworld figures he pursued, but his ominous sobriquet struck terror into the very hearts of sharpsters, lawbreakers and criminals. He was called The Shadow.

The Shadow turned another corner, stopped before the rear entrance of a dilapidated brick building, and crouched behind some battered garbage cans by the curb. He paused a moment and then raced up to the rear doors of the building, drawing a pair of chrome-plated .45 automatics from beneath his cloak. The building had something of a reputation as a hangout for criminals, and the Shadow wanted to be prepared for trouble. Agents of The Shadow had reported that the loot from several recent armed robberies--including cash, jewelry, furs, and gemstones--was stored in the warehouse and was due to be shipped out of state tonight so it could be fenced, laundered, and made to appear legitimate.

Inside the old warehouse, under the light of a single yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling, two criminals, Morty and Lefty, were pawing through the swag and gloating over their haul. They did not notice as the doors to the warehouse swung open silently and a dark shape entered. The yellow bulb swayed slightly on its cord, throwing ominous shadows into the corners of the room.

"Sheesh, Lefty, will ya get a load o' these diamonds?" Morty said incredulously, holding up a string of sparklers. "Ya know how much I can get for these?"

"I bet I can guess," Lefty answered, holding up a string of his own. "Where I plan on goin', these'll buy ya a lotta margaritas."

"And _senoritas_, too," Morty answered with a coarse laugh. He lowered his voice. "Hey, Lefty, whaddaya say we bump off this guy Gunther and split the loot two ways instead o' three?"

"Yeah, I like the sound o' that," said Lefty considering, "only--"

He broke off abruptly as he heard the sound of footsteps. The man in the greasy trench coat and black Homburg entered the room carrying a bottle of whiskey. "Here it is, fellas," he said, placing the bottle on the table, opening it, and fetching three dirty glasses. "Jeez, I had to look all over for the booze."

A strange, mocking laugh floated out of the darkness, followed by a voice that was scarcely above a whisper, yet strangely clear and penetrating.

"No, you didn't, Gunther," the strange voice said.

"Who said that?" Gunther Black shouted.

"I am The Shadow," said the voice. "The Shadow knows the real reason you took so long to get the whiskey was that you laced it with rat poison to do in your two friends here. Yet The Shadow knows your friends were plotting to do you in as well. I guess the old saying is true. There really is no honor among thieves."

The mocking laugh rang out louder than ever, seeming to reverberate from every corner of the warehouse. Morty and Lefty were confused, uncertain whether to respond to the treachery of their supposed ally or confront their mysterious adversary in the darkness. Gunther used their momentary indecision to flee, but then Morty and Lefty opened up on The Shadow--or the place they thought The Shadow might be--with their tommy guns. The mocking laugh continued, proving that the hail of bullets had missed its mark. The bulb swung wildly, shining a bright yellow light into the eyes of the felons. A huge looming wall of darkness in a vaguely man-like shape seemed to rise up before them, and they blacked out.

* * *

"Faith and begorrah, there they are, trussed up like a couple o' Christmas turkeys," exclaimed Sergeant Murphy as he entered the warehouse with his partner, Officer Flanagan. The two constables had received an anonymous tip over the telephone at the station house just around the block and had arrived to find everything just as the mysterious caller had said. Murphy and Flanagan set to work releasing the two gangsters from the ropes and gags that bound them only to haul them roughly to their feet and slap handcuffs on them. 

"Morty Lewis and Lefty Crane," Murphy said contemptuously, "two small time hoods if ever there were such. You've each got a rap sheet about a mile long. We'll have plenty to talk about down at the station." He jerked his billy club at Flanagan and the thugs, indicating they should come along. "Well, come on, you!"

Suddenly, another man, thin but wiry, dressed in a rumpled suit with a press pass jammed into the hat band of his fedora, bustled into the warehouse with a photographer in tow. "All right, all right, what's the story? Any of you boys care to make a statement for the press?" he called as he joined the party.

"And who might you be?" Murphy said, regarding the strangers with a cold skeptical glance and a raised eyebrow.

"Clyde Burke, _New York Classic_," the man explained.

"Wait a minute! I know you," Murphy growled, "You're that reporter fella that's always writin' about that Shadda character." He snorted. "Of all the nonsense! No statement for you until we finish here. This is a crime scene, don'tcha know."

"Aw, c'mon, Sarge. I'm just tryin' to get the story for our readers," Burke protested. He turned to Morty and Lefty. "Who did this to ya, boys?"

"The Shadda," Lefty said excitedly, "it was the Shadda, I tell ya. The guy ain't real! He's some kind o' spook or somethin'." Lefty began to babble.

"Bejabbers," Flanagan spoke up. "Then it's just like they say." The note of awe in his voice was unmistakable. He glanced at the rafters uneasily, as if The Shadow might still be lurking there, and crossed himself.

"Flanagan you're a fool," Murphy shot back, "Everybody knows there's no such person as The Shadda. That's just a story that Burke here made up to sell papers, isn't that right Burke?"

"I dunno, Sarge," Burke replied. "How do you explain the fact they were all tied up when you found 'em, and they swear The Shadow did it?"

"I . . . I can't," Murphy replied defensively, "but I know it wasn't The Shadda . . . or Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy," he snapped. "You're startin' to get on me nerves, Burke. I could charge you with interferin' in a police investigation. C'mon downtown, and we'll have a statement for ya then." Murphy glared at his still awe-struck partner. "Well, come on Flanagan!" he snapped.

The two policemen hustled the suspects out of the warehouse and into a squad car as more officers arrived to gather evidence. Saying he was going to call in his story and leaving the photographer to take pictures of the scene, Burke hurried to the nearest phone booth and dialed a private number--a number known only to a very select group of people in New York. A voice answered.

"Report," it said.

"Lewis and Crane are in custody, just as The Shadow planned. The police are still confused as to whether The Shadow exists," Burke replied.

"Excellent," the voice said. "File your story as usual. Well done, Burke."

"Thanks. Say, Burbank . . . Are you really going to talk to the Shadow tonight?"

"I shall convey your report to him myself."

There was a click as the line went dead. Clyde Burke had just reported--but not to the_Classic_. Unknown even to his employers, Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. The voice on the line was Burbank, the Shadow's chief operative and the conduit between The Shadow himself and his agents in the field. Burke knew perfectly well what the real story was, and using his position on the newspaper, could serve notice to the underworld that the Master of Darkness was on the prowl.

Burke dialed another number--the front desk of the _Classic_. "Hello, Mildred?" he said to the receptionist, "It's Burke. Gimme the rewrite desk." He waited and listened until he recognized the voice on the other end. "Pete? Yeah, it's Burke. Got another story for you." He paused and began dictating:

"For the third time in as many days, the mysterious crusader of the night known as The Shadow has struck, foiling a vicious and lucrative armed robbery ring and recovering thousands of dollars in loot. According to police sources . . ."

**End of Chapter I**


	3. Chapter II: Storm Clouds Gather

**CHAPTER II**

**Storm Clouds Gather**

". . . the two felons taken into custody did not have so much as a glimpse of their assailant, describing him only as an ominous disembodied voice with a penetrating laugh or a dark and sinister figure in the shape of a man. The invisible avenger struck before the criminals could react, leaving them dazed and helpless, bound and gagged when police officers arrived. One man associated with the robbery ring, identified as Gunther S. Black, last known address 227 Chauncey Street, Brooklyn, is still at large."

The elegantly dressed young man looked up from the newspaper article he had been reading aloud and looked across the table at his companion.

"Ah, Gunther," the young man said dryly in a clipped, accented voice, "still highly skilled at self-preservation, I see."

"A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, Mr. Dietrich," Gunther Black said apologetically, "Morty and Lefty were on to me, and if I'd stayed any longer the Shadda woulda nabbed me too."

"Ah, yes, The Shadow." Karl Dietrich looked at Gunther with his icy blue eyes and brushed a stray wisp of straw blond hair out of his face before continuing. "Since I arrived in New York, I have read quite a bit about this remarkable personage--mostly in the pages of this wretched periodical." He tapped the folded front page of that morning's edition of the _Classic_ with a long, tapered, expertly manicured finger. A finger on the other hand wore a ring with a large green stone that seemed to flicker and glow curiously. "A man who appears to have no body, a man who can appear and disappear at will in any guise he chooses or none at all, and gather information that many would prefer remain secret--information that would foil criminal enterprises and be of great value to the police. Such a man--or his abilities--would also be of great value . . . to my employers."

"Just who are these employers of yours?" Gunther asked suspiciously, "I been hearin' a lot about dem too, but ya ain't told me nothin'."

"Nor shall I," Dietrich said sharply. "That is none of your concern. Your task--your only task--is to use your criminal connections to lead me to this . . . Shadow. For this, you will be well compensated. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Gunther said grudgingly. "But it's kinda tough to find the Shadda--especially when he don't wanna be found."

"That is where you are mistaken, Gunther. If he remains true to form, this Shadow can always be found where a crime has been committed. We know he responds to criminal activity in the warehouse district. I wish you to noise it abroad that those members of your gang who have not been incarcerated will shift their operations to a certain establishment at the corner of Lexington and 29th. Let it be known that something significant will take place there--something The Shadow cannot overlook. This building is owned by my employers and has been . . . especially prepared . . . for his arrival."

"Yes sir," Gunther said with an evil grin, catching on to what Dietrich might have in mind. "I'll put the word out right away. I'll call ya tonight when everything's all set."

"No, not tonight," Dietrich corrected quickly. "I have an important social engagement this evening. I shall be dining at the Cobalt Club. I will telephone you later. If you will excuse me."

Dietrich stood, signaling the interview was over. Even in his dressing gown, Karl Dietrich looked regal and handsome, a man used to giving orders. Gunther stood as well. In his greasy trench coat and battered black Homburg, he looked distinctly out of place in the breakfast room of the elegantly appointed Manhattan townhouse. Dietrich looked at him as if his mere presence might soil the furniture.

"Hey, hey, the Cobalt Club's a pretty classy joint," Gunther said enviously, "How ya gonna get in there without an invite?"

"I have a connection. Someone else who may prove useful to us. You needn't trouble yourself about that. Please leave now Gunther," Dietrich said curtly. "Oh, and in future we shall not meet here. Your continued presence might arouse suspicion. All future meetings will take place here." Dietrich handed Gunther a slip of paper with an address. Dietrich reached for a small silver bell on the table and shook it gently. A moment later, a tall, pale, cadaverous looking servant entered. Dietrich thought he saw Gunther suppress a shudder. Dietrich gestured to Gunther and then to the tall, pale servant. "Schmidt will show you out."

"Yes sir."

Gunther left. Dietrich had already turned away from him and toward the picture window of the breakfast room. For a moment he regarded the glorious sunrise that was appearing over the Manhattan skyline and then set about putting his plans into motion. He had much to do.

* * *

The gleaming black Cord Phaeton convertible pulled up in front of the elegant building with the elaborate yet tasteful Art Deco exterior. A tall man with piercing black eyes, clad in an immaculate black overcoat and tuxedo, stepped from the Cord and helped a stunning, willowy brunette out from the passenger side of the car. The woman's overcoat partially concealed her shimmering designer evening gown. The glamorous couple turned the heads of passersby as they moved gracefully down the sidewalk and up the front steps of the building, where they exchanged pleasantries with the doorman. They were known and expected. 

Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane entered the Cobalt Club. A hat check girl took their coats, and the concierge greeted them eagerly.

"Ah, Mr. Cranston, Miss Lane, how nice to see you again. If you'll follow me please, your usual table is ready."

"Thank you, Pendleton," Cranston acknowledged.

The concierge led them through the lobby into the combination ballroom and dining room that formed the downstairs portion of the exclusive club. Upstairs were a drawing room, smoking rooms, and a study where the city's elite could gather in privacy and comfort. Both Lamont and Margo were clearly at home in such a place. Pendleton seated them and withdrew deferentially. Moments later, the waiter arrived.

"Good evening, Mr. Cranston, Miss Lane. Would you care for a menu?A wine list?"

"That won't be necessary, Henri. What's particularly good this evening?" Cranston asked.

"Chef recommends the grilled sole almondine with tomato and basil in a white sauce. Our sommelier Philippe suggests the Chateau Neuve Cliquot '32."

"Sounds delicious."

"Very good, sir. And for the lady?"

"I'll have the same, thank you, Henri," Margo said.

The waiter bowed and headed off to the kitchen with their orders. While Lamont and Margo waited for their meals, the club's house band, Ken Kincaid and His Cobalt Chorus, struck up a dance set. Elegantly dressed couples moved out onto the ballroom floor.

"Oh, listen, Lamont," Margo said excitedly, "doesn't the band sound wonderful this evening?"

Lamont listened for a moment, knowing that this was Margo's way of asking him to ask her to dance. "Yes, they are in rare form tonight," he said casually. He waited a moment, knowing this was part of their little game, and then turned to her with a mischievous grin.

"Miss Lane, would you care to trip the light fantastic?"

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Cranston," Margo replied with a flirtatious smile of her own.

Lamont took Margo's hand and led her onto the dance floor. The band launched into a lively arrangement of "Cheek to Cheek," and Margo and Lamont took plenty of opportunities to dance as the song suggested. The band brought the number to a rousing conclusion, and all the couples on the dance floor cheered and applauded. Before Lamont and Margo could return to their table however, Margo thought she heard a voice from behind her amid the confusion.

"Margo? Margo Lane? _Mein Gott_, it is you!"

Margo turned to see a tall fair-skinned man with icy blue eyes and straw blond hair facing her. Like Lamont, he was impeccably dressed in a perfectly fitting black tuxedo. She looked blankly at him for a moment, but then her heart seemed to jump into her throat. Her pulse raced and she struggled to resist the urge to fling herself into his arms then and there. Memories of a torrid romance at the Lane family summer home on Martha's Vineyard flashed through her mind: the sound of waves crashing on the shore; long walks on moonlit beaches; watching fireworks in the night sky; making fireworks of their own amid the dunes . . .

The sound of a man's deliberate, artificially loud cough interrupted Margo's reverie. "Excuse me, did I miss something?" asked Lamont, stepping up to join them.

"Oh, Lamont. This is Karl. Karl Dietrich. An old . . . friend. We . . . we haven't seen each other in years," Margo stammered.

"So I gather," Lamont answered dryly. "Lamont Cranston. Pleased to meet you," he said formally to Karl. He disliked the man intensely already, but he didn't know why. He extended his hand without much enthusiasm, but Dietrich didn't even take it.

"Karl Heinz Josef Dietrich von Effenbach, at your service," the young man said with a courtly bow. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. I have read much about you in the papers, Herr Cranston. You are quite the philanthropist, yes? You are . . . What is the expression you Americans use? 'A wealthy young man about town.'"

"It's my privilege to support a number of charitable endeavors," Lamont said stiffly.

"Ah! How very noble of you," Dietrich answered. He smiled a cold smile. "And you are also something of an amateur investigator of sorts? Your name has been mentioned in connection with several police matters of late."

"On occasion, my efforts have been of some assistance to the police," Lamont said even more stiffly. Now he knew what he didn't like about Karl Dietrich--the young man's cold patronizing manner, combined with the fact that Dietrich seemed to know more about him than he he knew about Dietrich. He didn't like being caught at a disadvantage.

"Come, come, Herr Cranston! You are being entirely too modest. But I am forgetting my manners. Will you join me at my table? We can talk there in greater comfort and become better acquainted. There's someone else there that I'm sure you know --Miss Lane's uncle Renfield."

"Well, I'm sure the waiter will be bringing our dinners any moment now . . ." Lamont began.

"Uncle Renfield? Why, this is a surprise!" Margo said, delighted that the conversation had shifted away from Lamont and Karl, at least for the moment. "Oh come on, Lamont, let's. Just for a minute."

Lamont shrugged helplessly and followed Margo and Dietrich back to Dietrich's table. On the way, Margo kept stealing admiring glances at Dietrich as if reminiscing about her long ago adventures with her old beau. As they approached the booth, a large older man in a somewhat ill-fitting tuxedo stood up hurriedly and seemed to be trying to leave. He had once been handsome and broad shouldered, but too many years of overindulgence with food and drink had taken their toll. He was growing paunchy, his face was red, and his jowls sagged. He looked at the newcomers with glassy and unfocused eyes. The man was already in his cups, and it was barely eight o'clock, Cranston thought sadly.

"Hello, Uncle Renfield," Margo said happily. When she saw how tipsy her uncle was, however, her tone grew more studied, as though she was straining to pretend nothing was wrong. "Uncle Renfield . . . It's Margo. You remember my friend Lamont Cranston, don't you?"

"Hullo, Margo. Hullo Crans'on," Renfield Lane mumbled. "Die'rich, I think I'd better be getting home. I . . . I'm not feeling well," he added hastily, as if embarrassed.

"Would you like me to take you home Uncle Renfield?" Margo asked anxiously. Lamont leaned forward to help.

"No, that won't be necessary," Renfield Lane said firmly, trying to salvage his pride. "I'll have Pendleton call a cab. Goodnight." Lane shuffled toward the front door a bit unsteadily, Lamont thought. The entire party watched him go uneasily and then seated themselves at the table.

"Karl," Margo said, feigning innocence, "Just what were you talking to my uncle about?"

"I . . . I was just discussing a new . . . business opportunity . . . with your uncle," Dietrich said vaguely. "I am sure you do not wish to be bored with the details, Margo dear," he added, trying to change the subject.

"And what business would that be, Mr. Dietrich?" Lamont asked pointedly. "You seem to know quite a bit about Miss Lane and myself, but we don't know much about you."

"I operate an import-export firm, Mr. Cranston," Dietrich replied. "I am interested in expanding trade between the United States and the new Germany."

"Oh really? I don't know much about the 'new Germany.' I fought the old one in the last war," Lamont said coldly. "And it looks to me as if Herr Hitler is mightily interested in starting another one," he added. Margo jabbed him in the shins under the table.

"How interesting. My family lost everything fighting the Allies in the last war, Herr Cranston," Dietrich replied with equal coldness. "And might I suggest that you misjudge our FŸhrer's intentions? The German people desire peace with all nations."

"The German people, maybe. But I'd ask the people of Czechoslovakia about your FŸhrer's intentions," Lamont snapped. Margo glared at him.

Dietrich stood and threw his napkin down on the table furiously. "I have had quite enough of this conversation. Goodnight Margo. Goodnight . . . Mr. . . Cranston." He turned on his heel and stormed out.

After this exchange, neither Lamont nor Margo felt like eating, and Lamont paid for the dinners, untouched. Margo asked to be driven home but was silent and cold after that. Lamont waited until the Cord was parked outside her apartment to speak.

"Margo," he said, "you haven't said a word since we left the club. What's wrong?"

She rounded on him. "What's wrong? What's wrong? You have the nerve to ask me what's wrong? You acted like the biggest boor and cad I've ever seen in my life! You deliberately insulted an old . . . friend of mine for no reason!"

"I did have a reason. I don't like him. Margo, he got your uncle drunk and then tried to talk about a 'business opportunity' with him. He wants your uncle's money. Your uncle didn't want to be seen with him. He's making apologies for Hitler and that bunch of thugs in Berlin. That's another reason for me not to like him. He's up to something."

"You're only saying that because you're jealous. You have no proof of any of it," Margo said sullenly.

"I'll find proof," Lamont retorted grimly. "I'm going to find out more about Mr. Karl Dietrich. If I don't, The Shadow will."

"Don't you dare, Lamont Cranston! If you or The Shadow go near Karl, I'll never speak to you again!"

Margo bolted from the car and bounded up the steps to the front door of her apartment house. Lamont followed behind and caught her on the arm before she put her key in the lock.

"Margo, be reasonable," he said. "I've never seen you act this way with any of your old friends before. Just how good friends were you all those years ago?"

Margo slapped Lamont as hard as he could ever remember being slapped. She still had the keys in her hand, which stung even more. While Lamont was still reeling from the blow, Margo thrust her keys into the lock, jerked the door open, stormed through the doorway, and slammed the door behind her.

Lamont Cranston recovered himself and stood on the front steps of Margo Lane's brownstone with his hands in his pockets and a dazed expression on his face. He exhaled audibly. The evening was not going well.

**End of Chapter II **


	4. Chapter III: The Shadow Falls

**CHAPTER III**

**The Shadow Falls**

All the way back to his own townhouse, Lamont Cranston seethed. He gripped the steering wheel of the Cord so tightly that his knuckles were white. Margo had been right. He had been a boor and a cad. He would have to make it up to her. Even more dangerously, he had allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment, something his experience as The Shadow had taught him never to do. Yet every fiber of his being told him not to trust Karl Dietrich. If the man was involved in anything illegal, it was going to take more than Lamont Cranston's hunch to find it.

After a seemingly interminable drive, he reached the townhouse. He swept through the living room without even turning on the lights. His destination was the study at the back of the house where he could sit and think quietly. He switched on the lights in the study and strode to the sideboard where his valet Ames often left a serving tray, a decanter, and glasses. Lamont poured himself a tumbler of whiskey, set it down on his elaborately carved oak desk, and sat down himself, but hesitated before taking a drink. He was about to reach for the glass when a special alarm sounded. Cranston went to the bookcase and slid aside a bust of Marcus Aurelius, revealing a hidden niche in the wall. The niche contained a telephone from which the alarm sounds came. The telephone needed no dial, for it was a direct line to Burbank. Cranston picked up the phone. His voice changed. It was no longer the voice of Lamont Cranston. It was the voice of The Shadow.

"Report," The Shadow said.

"Robbery in progress at Bracey's Department Store, Fifth and Broadway. Criminals loaded cash, jewels, furs into truck. Matches _modus operandi_ of Gunther Black gang. Intelligence suggests headed to warehouse, Lexington and 29th. Shrevnitz will arrive your location, two minutes," Burbank reported.

The Gunther Black gang at work again? So soon after The Shadow had struck at them? It didn't make sense. Still, it seemed Karl Dietrich would have to wait. Black and his cronies could be dealt with easily enough.

"No time," The Shadow answered," I'll take the Cord myself."

"Sir? May I remind you that's a violation of procedure?"

"Don't question my orders, Burbank," the hint of menace in the Shadow's voice was unmistakable.

"But sir--"

There was no answer on the other end of the line. The receiver dangled uselessly from the telephone in Lamont Cranston's study. Moments later a cloaked and hooded figure burst from the rear of the house and a gleaming black automobile sped into the night.

* * *

The Shadow burst into the warehouse, chrome plated automatics drawn and gleaming, expecting trouble. He saw nothing except darkness and heard nothing but a murmur of voices from the room beyond. Good. He still had the element of surprise. He crept through the double doors hoping to surprise the crooks as they unloaded the swag. Sure enough, Gunther Black stood near the doorway watching calmly as his minions brought in loot from the robbery. His back and the backs of all his gang were turned to The Shadow. This was going to be easy. 

A sibilant laugh floated out of the darkness. "Gunther Black," called a weird, penetrating voice. "Did you really think you could pull off another robbery so easily and so soon? Did you really think you could escape The Shadow again? It seems justice has finally caught up with you."

The Shadow let out another peal of mocking laughter, but Gunther, still with his back turned, seemed oddly unfazed.

"Laugh all you want, Shadow. You think you've got me--but I've got the last laugh--'cause I've got you!"Gunther reached up and pulled a large lever on the wall. There was a series of booms and clangs as heavy steel doors throughout the building slammed shut and steel shutters dropped down over all the windows. Gunther flipped another lever and special vents in the floor, wall, and ceiling opened. Noxious, yellowish gas began to pour out of them. Gunther and his men turned and The Shadow could see that the crook and his men wore gas masks. They were prepared and he was not. He had walked straight into a trap.

The Shadow began to feel faint and lightheaded. With his powers of concentration gone, he could no longer cloud the minds of Gunther and his gang so they could not see him. They first saw a swirl of blackness that gradually solidified into a manlike shape, and then finally into a tall man in a black slouch hat and a billowing black cloak. The man held a pair of gleaming .45 caliber automatics loosely in his hands, but these clattered to the floor as the man visibly weakened under the influence of the gas. The man himself toppled face first to the ground a moment later. Gunther and his gang raced over to the man, with Gunther giving him a savage kick to turn him over.

"We got him! We got him, Gunther! We got the Shadda!" one of the men exclaimed. A gangster with an ugly scar on his cheek reached uncertainly for the handkerchief over The Shadow's face, but Gunther stopped him with a backhanded blow that nearly sent the man sprawling.

"Not so fast, Jack," Gunther snarled. "The boss wanted to be here when we took the mask off him. I'm goin' to get him right now."

"He ain't . . . dead, is he?" Jack asked, pointing nervously to the man on the ground.

"Nah! He's just out cold. The boss wanted him alive for some reason," Gunther said nonchalantly. He looked again at Cranston. "He ain't dead--yet. But I figure he will be, soon enough."

* * *

The blond, blue-eyed well dressed man looked distinctly out of place in front of the seedy, run-down all night movie theater, but he guessed few people would notice. The feature was not one of Hollywood's finest and the late night showing appeared to be nearly deserted as he had hoped. The man paid for his ticket, went inside, and seated himself in the next to last row. The newsreel was still showing footage of Chamberlain's triumphant return to London the month before, proclaiming "peace in our time." 

"Fools!" the blond man thought, "If you only knew!"

The newsreel ended, to be followed by a cartoon. A fat stuttering pig stumbled around on the screen getting into one predicament after another.

"How appropriate," the blond man thought, "You Americans, fat, stupid pigs that you are, will go blundering about with no idea what is happening until The Reich wins its victory." He smiled in the dark.

He waited, pretending to watch the cartoon until he heard a rustling noise as someone slid into the seat behind him. A voice rasped in his ear.

"Mr. Dietrich? Our guest has arrived."

"Did you encounter any difficulties?"

"No sir. Everything went just like you said."

"Excellent! Let us go then!"

Karl Dietrich and Gunther Black left the theater together and headed towards the warehouse where The Shadow waited as their prisoner.

**End of Chapter III **


	5. Chapter IV: The Face of the Enemy

**CHAPTER IV**

**The Face of the Enemy**

Margo Lane pounded on the front door of the elegant brownstone until a tall, pale, almost cadaverous gimlet-eyed man in formal dress answered.

"May I help you,_ Fraulein_?"

"My name is Margo Lane and I must see Mr. Dietrich at once."

"One moment, _Fraulein_."

After withdrawing inside the house to announce her, the servant returned and ushered her into the study where Dietrich was waiting. He rose to his feet and came out from behind his desk when Margo entered. After a quick nod from Dietrich, the servant withdrew.

"Margo! What a pleasant surprise! Please sit down," Dietrich said, offering her a chair.

Margo remained standing. "I'm afraid this isn't a social call, Karl. It's about Lamont. He's disappeared, and I don't know where he's gone."

"Oh, Margo! This is terrible! Have you notified the police?"

"Well, of course I've spoken to Commissioner Weston, but I feel there must be something more I can do."

"Margo, please. I beg you--as an old friend--stay out of this affair and let the police attend to it. They are trained in these matters. It will be the fastest possible way of discovering what has become of Herr Cranston."

"But--"

"No buts, my dear. Stay out of it," Dietrich said firmly.

Margo dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Yes I suppose you're right," she said sniffling. "But there is something else I must ask you, Karl."

"Anything,_liebechen_."

"You were one of the last people he saw before he disappeared, and you and he quarreled. I must know on your word of honor that you had nothing to do with this."

Dietrich made a great show of being surprised. "You suspect that I had something to do with Herr Cranston's disappearance? Why, Margo dear, you wound me! _Liebchen_, I swear to you by all that is holy I was not involved."

"Thank you Karl. I needed to to hear it from you."

"Of course, my dear." He drew a protective arm around her shoulder. "May I give you some advice--as an old friend?"

Margo nodded, looking up at him adoringly.

"Go home and get some rest, my dear. You look a fright, as if you had hardly slept in days," he said in a fatherly tone.

"Yes, I suppose you're right again. Dear old Karl, always thinking of me," Margo said, her voice choking and her eyes glistening.

Dietrich gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead. "Very good. I shall have Schmidt see you home."

"That won't be necessary. I have my own transportation," Margo answered quickly.

"Yes, of course. As you wish. At least allow me to see you to the door."

Dietrich ushered Margo into the hallway and led her to the front door where a yellow cab was waiting. The driver seemed to be watching them intently. They shook hands and parted.

Dietrich walked back to the desk in the study, picked up a small silver bell, and shook it gently. The bell tinkled with a musical sound. The cadaverous servant reappeared.

"You rang, _Mein Herr_?"

"A bottle of Riesling, please, Schmidt."

"Very good, _Mein Herr_."

Dietrich watched his servant go. When Dietrich was alone, a grim expression replaced the mask of affectionate concern he had been wearing for Margo. He returned to his desk and resumed working until Schmidt came in and silently and efficiently placed the bottle of wine on the sideboard. The butler fixed his employer with a gimlet gaze before speaking.

"Do you believe she suspects?"

"I know she does," Dietrich said casually, pouring himself a glass of Riesling from the bottle on the sideboard. He regarded his butler with a glance that was equally cold. "Have her followed."

"I have already made arrangements for that eventuality, _Mein Herr_."

Schmidt strode to the window and pulled back the curtain in an ostentatious and deliberate manner that attracted the attention of a burly, swarthy man standing in front of a dark sedan parked across the street. A second thin, rat-like man waited in the car. Once Schmidt and the swarthy man made eye contact, Schmidt slowly and deliberately nodded his head. The dark swarthy man nodded in reply, got into the sedan, and set out in pursuit of Margo Lane's taxicab.

* * *

Inside the cab, Moe "Shrevvy" Shrevnitz turned his meter off and adjusted the rear view mirror before speaking casually to the passenger in the back seat. "So how'd it go?" he asked. 

"Just as I suspected it would. I deserve an Academy Award for that performance. Grand Central Station and step on it," Margo Lane said.

"You still wanna go through with this?"

"Oh, Shrevvy, I have to! Lamont's missing, and we need help to find him."

"Help! Miss Lane, there's a whole city full o' people who'd do anything to help find The Shadow--to help him just like he helped them once--includin' me. You know that!"

"Yes, I do, and don't think I don't appreciate it. All the agents are terribly brave. But I have to do this myself. Oh, Shrevvy, Lamont was right! Karl is mixed up in this, Lamont's in trouble, and it's all my fault! Why didn't I listen to him?"

"Aw, now Miss Lane, don't go talkin' like that! Love makes a person do crazy things, sometimes. Why I remember once, my cousin Frankie--"

Moe Shrevnitz stopped abruptly and glanced in the rear view mirror with a worried expression.

"Shrevvy, what's wrong?"

"We got company."

"Can you lose them?"

"Can I lose 'em, she says!" the cabbie scoffed, his professional pride deeply wounded. "Of course I can lose 'em. It's just gonna take a little work to do it, that's all. Hang on!"

Shrevvy sped up and began dodging and weaving through several lanes of city traffic, guiding the cab expertly, miraculously through a series of hairpin turns it was obviously not designed to perform and weaving unerringly through a maze of back alleys, side streets, tunnels, and underpasses that were apparently known only to him. Margo kept her eyes shut in terror but in her ears the next few minutes were a montage of roaring engines, shrieking brakes, squealing tires, honking horns, distant collisions, and shouts of alarm from pedestrians and other drivers. Above all this cacophony, one sound rang out even louder--the wail of police sirens.

"Swell," Shrevvy exclaimed sarcastically, "Now we got the cops on our tail, too."

"Oh no," Margo moaned.

"Nothin' to worry about Miss Lane, I got it all taken care of, see? We just pull over in this alley, let the cops go right on by and pick up our pals in the dark sedan, and we go on to Grand Central like we was a couple o' regular Joes. Respectable like."

After watching three police cruisers roar past their hiding place, they arrived at Grand Central Station having sedately followed all posted speed limits. The moment the cab rolled meekly to a stop, Margo Lane bolted from the car, carrying only a single overnight bag. She raced around to the driver's side, where Shrevvy was busily rolling down the window.

"You sure you wanna do this Miss Lane?" he asked doubtfully. "I can still come with."

"No, Shrevvy," Margo said firmly. "Burbank and the others may need you. I told you before, I have to do this myself." She leaned down and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thanks for everything, Shrevvy. You're a dear. Now go on home and report to Burbank--but not until after I'm gone. I don't want him trying to talk me out of this."

"But Miss Lane--"

"Go on home, Shrevvy," Margo insisted. "It's just as you said. Love makes you do crazy things sometimes." She turned away from him and toward the station platforms without a backward glance. Shrevvy, however, watched her go with an anxious expression.

"It sure does, Miss Lane," he murmured. "It sure does."

* * *

Gunther Black's meaty fist holding the brass knuckles ripped across Lamont Cranston's face once again, snapping his head violently to one side. Cranston groaned in pain and slowly turned his head back to its original position. His eyes were glassy and a small rivulet of blood flowed from one corner of his mouth. His face was dirty and unshaven. His dress shirt, the same one he had worn at the Cobalt Club days before, was now hopelessly wrinkled and soiled with large sweat stains visible under his arms. He had been unable to change his clothes because he had been handcuffed to the chair for hours at a time. Dietrich, however, was unimpressed with the pitiful appearance Cranston now presented. 

"I shall ask you again, Herr Cranston. How do you become The Shadow? What is the secret of your power?"

Despite his obvious pain, Cranston did his best to affect an air of studied nonchalance. "The Shadow? I don't know anything about The Shadow."

"I grow weary of this, Herr Cranston. You crept into this warehouse in the dead of night to spy on me and you were found wearing The Shadow's clothing. Do you deny that?"

"Oh,that! Well, you see, I couldn't sleep, so I went out for a midnight stroll. As for the clothes, I really must speak to my tailor."

Dietrich glanced sharply at Gunther who silently and methodically applied the brass knuckles to Cranston's midsection. Cranston let out a groan and bowed his head. Dietrich, however, immediately jerked it back up again and held his own face, fixed with a maniacal glare, just inches from Cranston's.

"Listen to me, Herr Cranston. I know you are The Shadow, and I want to know how you become The Shadow. You will tell me this or you will die. Do you understand?"

Lamont Cranston summoned his last reserves of physical strength and spoke to Dietrich without any sign of exhaustion or fear. "No, you listen to me, Dietrich. I'll never tell you the secret of The Shadow. If you want to kill me, go right ahead, because I'd rather die than tell you what you want to know." There was steel in his voice.

Rather than react violently, however, Dietrich sighed and turned away, almost as if he were disappointed or resigned. "Yes, I suppose you are right," he said almost sadly. "I have tried drugs, hypnosis, and Mr. Black's more . . . direct . . . methods of persuasion, and still you have not told me what I wish to know. Your resolve is most admirable, Mr. Cranston. I should have foreseen this result. I cannot persuade you by force or violence to give me the knowledge I seek. Suppose, however, that I were to apply Mr. Black's methods to someone dear to you . . . Miss Lane perhaps?"

At these last words, Dietrich turned back to Cranston with a vicious grin. He caught the momentary flash of terror on the face of Lamont Cranston, who struggled to recover himself.

"So help me, Dietrich, if you lay a finger on Margo, I'll--"

"You will do what, Mr. Cranston?" Dietrich replied acidly, plainly enjoying the moment. "My dear sir, you are in no position to do anything to anyone. Why, you are as powerless and as helpless as . . . a shadow." Dietrich obviously found this amusing because he burst into a long peal of mocking laughter.

Cranston pleaded with his captor. "Dietrich, you can't do that to Margo. She loved you once. And she thought you loved her."

"Love!" Dietrich spat. "What good is love? I serve a power greater than love now. I serve the FŸrhrer. I serve the Fatherland. I serve Destiny." As if moved by his own heroic oratory, Dietrich called out like a general commanding an army. "Schmidt!"

The cadaverous servant reappeared.

"You called, _Mein Herr_?"

"Yes, Schmidt. Telephone those two cretins you engaged to follow Miss Lane. Instruct them to apprehend her and bring her here immediately."

"At once, _Mein Herr_."

Schmidt turned on his heel and marched out of the room with military precision, but returned a few moments later, looking even paler than usual and distinctly ill at ease.

"Well? What is it?" Dietrich snapped, noting the butler's discomfort.

"_Mein Herr_ . . . the woman she . . . she . . . Miss Lane is gone," he finally blurted.

"Gone?" Dietrich roared, "What do you mean gone?"

"She . . . she seems to have escaped our surveillance, _Mein Herr_."

Lamont Cranston breathed a silent prayer of gratitude. Good girl, Margo, he thought.

Dietrich was not so pleased. He gave Schmidt a vicious backhanded blow that nearly toppled the taller but thinner man. "And just how did she escape?" Dietrich growled.

"They say she was driven by a cabbie who . . . who drove like a madman."

Lamont amended his prayer of thanks. Good old Shrevvy, he added.

"Do they have any idea where she is now?" Dietrich demanded.

"It is believed she went to Grand Central Station. A woman answering Miss Lane's description purchased a ticket for the Metropolis Flyer yesterday evening."

Dietrich whirled to face Gunther Black.

"Do you have any associates in Metropolis?" Dietrich asked.

"I know people," Black said.

"Then let us hope your 'people' will be of greater usefulness than Herr Schmidt's," Dietrich said bitingly. "We must find her, we must find out what she knows, and then . . ." Dietrich paused and glared directly at Cranston . . . "we must eliminate her."

In his battered, exhausted state, Lamont Cranston couldn't imagine why Margo was going to Metropolis, but he knew that as long as she was alive and out of Dietrich's clutches, there was hope.

**End of Chapter IV**


	6. Chapter V: A Plan Takes Shape

**CHAPTER V**

**A Plan Takes Shape**

**Metropolis**

**November 1938**

When Margo finished, Lois took a deep breath. "Well," she said, "that's some story! I can certainly see why you might not want to go to the police. And you think Karl Dietrich is behind it all, eh? The plot thickens."

"I'm almost sure of it, but I can't prove it. That's why I need your help, Lois."

"Me? What can I do to help?"

"I came to you because you're a reporter, Lois. You . . . know people. Who . . . know things," Margo said. "I thought if anyone could help me find Lamont, it would be you."

"Yes, you're right, I do know some people," Lois said thoughtfully, "and I think one person who can help us is right next door. Come on, Margo."

Lois led Margo back out into the hustle and bustle of the _Daily Planet_ city room and up to the door of the office next to hers. The name on the frosted glass panel read "Clark Kent." Lois rapped on the door, and a tall, broad-shouldered man answered. He would have been extremely handsome, Margo thought, except that his eyes were obscured behind overlarge glasses, and his suit seemed somehow too big, as if there was something hidden beneath it. His fedora, with a press pass in the hat band, was casually shoved to the back of his head, as if he had come in too distracted to remove it, instead diving straight into writing his story. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see them.

"Miss Lane!" he said eagerly to Lois, "Won't you come in?"

"You'd better be clear which Miss Lane you're talking about, Mr. Kent," Lois said dryly. "This is my sister Margo, and we need your help." She swept past him and into the office which was just a little smaller than her own.

"How do you do, Miss Lane?" Clark said formally to Margo. He quickly removed the fedora and offered her his own chair. All his bumbling gallantry was charming, Margo thought, but he was no fool. Was the bumbling an act? If so, what was he hiding? There was more to him than met the eye, she decided.

"Please, call me Margo," Margo said, offering her hand and a smile. "After all, Lois is right, there are two Miss Lanes here."

"And I suppose that means you can call me Lois," her sister said dryly. "Only don't get any ideas--Mr. Kent."

"Please. Call me Clark. What can I do for you ladies?" Kent asked affably.

"Tell him, Margo," Lois said simply.

Margo related the story of Lamont's secret and the meeting with Dietrich several days before at the Cobalt Club. She noticed that all the bumbling disappeared from Kent's manner after she told her story. He was all business now.

"I see," Kent said thoughtfully, "And do you believe Dietrich was involved in Cranston's disappearance?"

"He said he wasn't, but I don't believe him. I spoke to Karl right after Lamont disappeared. He was very sympathetic, of course, but he insisted I stay out of it and let the police handle it--almost as if he didn't want me nosing around. I know he and Lamont didn't like each other at all. Lamont suspected Karl was up to something almost immediately and said he might investigate him--as The Shadow," Margo said.

"And as The Shadow, he might have discovered something dangerous. Dietrich must be pretty well connected if he can get into the Cobalt Club. That's one of the most exclusive organizations in the country," Kent mused.

"My father, my uncle, and my . . . friend, Mr. Cranston are all members," Margo said.

"Your father, your uncle . . ." Kent repeated. "Excuse me, Miss Lane--both Miss Lanes--but are you any relation to Matthias Lane of Lane Industries?"

"He's our father," Margo said simply.

Kent shot quick glances at Lois and Margo and gave a low awe-struck whistle. "Miss Lane--Lois--you never told me!"

"And you're never telling anyone else either," Lois answered, fixing him with a withering glare. "Can you imagine how everybody around here would treat me if they knew?"

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me," Kent said. And I know a thing or two about keeping secrets, he added to himself. Next, he said, "The people at the Cobalt Club are a very powerful group. I'm just a mild-mannered reporter. What can I do?

"Well," Lois said carefully, "in view of Lamont's . . . special abilities . . . I thought someone else with special abilities might be able to help find him--namely Superman. So I came to you to help me find him."

"Me? But Miss Lane, you've written as much about Superman as I have. You even gave him his nickname, for heaven's sake."

"Don't be coy, Mr. Kent. Everybody knows you seem to have some kind of inside information on Superman. You always seem to know what he's thinking, or what he'll do next. Though it is strange that you're never around when he is."

Kent flinched inwardly and recovered. Did she suspect something?

"All right, Miss Lane. I can go to New York, look around, and ask a few questions, but I can't guarantee that Superman will show up. Besides, I'd have to ask for a few days off from Mr. White to do it, and with the elections coming up, we both know how likely that is. Don't get your hopes up."

Kent opened the door and the group stepped out into the city room. Just at that moment, a door at the opposite end of the room, marked, "Perry White, Managing Editor," opened and a large, red-faced, white haired man emerged carrying a telegram. "Great Caesar's ghost!" he bellowed, "What a way to run a railroad!"

Clark, Lois, and Margo hurried over to Perry White. "What's wrong, Chief?" Kent asked.

"Just got a wire from our New York bureau. In three days President Roosevelt's giving a big speech to a roomful of hotshot bankers up there, but now I don't have anybody to cover it because our man Carstairs, the poor devil, fell and broke his leg! Can you believe it?"

"Gee, that is tough," Kent mused. "Say, Chief, I could go to New York and cover the speech for you. I've already filed all my big stories on the election."

"Really? Kent, you're a lifesaver. Now get back to work," White said gruffly.

"And I could go with him, Chief," Lois piped up quickly, "I'll have my story finished in, oh . . . half an hour, tops. It'll give me a chance to visit my sister Margo." Lois threw her arms around Margo in a show of sisterly affection. "She's visiting from New York, and I can return the favor! We haven't seen each other in years," she gushed. Margo shot Perry White a dazzling smile.

"Well, I . . ." White began.

"Thanks, Chief. You're a doll!" Lois blurted before White could answer. She rushed forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. Perry White turned brick red. Margo stepped forward.

"Mr. White, I really appreciate your letting Lois come to New York like this. It means more to me than you know." She too gave him a peck on the cheek.

Perry White turned an even deeper shade of red. Clark, Lois, and Margo withdrew to Kent's office for one last conference. Nearby a tall gangly copyboy watched the whole scene with a huge lopsided grin on his face. Perry White whirled and glared at him.

"Olson, what are you gawking at? Get back to work!" he snapped. "Great Caesar's ghost! Everybody get back to work! And don't call me Chief!" Perry White retreated to his office and slammed the door.

* * *

Before meeting Margo and Lois at Metropolis Station as he had agreed, Clark Kent stopped by police headquarters to see his friend, Inspector Bill Henderson. 

"Say, Bill," Kent asked casually, "Do you know anybody on the force in New York that I could get in touch with if I needed to?"

"Well, I met Commissioner Weston at a policeman's ball a few years back," Henderson replied. "Struck me as a bit of a stuffed shirt to be perfectly honest. If you really want to know the score, I'd suggest Inspector Joe Cardona. One of the best cops I ever saw. Why do you want to know?"

"Mr. White asked me to go up there to cover a story, and while I was there, I thought I'd look into something . . . for a friend," Kent finished a trifle evasively.

Henderson's eyes narrowed. "You moonlighting as a private detective now?"

"Nothing like that," Kent said, "It's just--"

"Never mind, I don't want to know," Henderson interrupted. "Just remember, interfering in police business is against the law in New York just like it is here." He scribbled Cardona's name and precinct number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Kent. "And promise me you'll call Joe if you run into anything you can't handle, all right?"

"I promise, I'll call your friend Cardona the minute there's anything that even looks like trouble," Kent said with what he hoped sounded like a casual laugh.

Henderson's eyes narrowed again. "See that you do," he said. He wasn't laughing.

**End of Chapter V**


	7. Chapter VI: Night Journey

**CHAPTER VI**

**Night Journey**

The man standing alone in the midst of the swirling, bustling crowd at Metropolis Station looked ordinary enough, but he was most certainly anything but common. Clark Kent, or, as he had once been called, Kal-El, the son of Jor-El, and the sole survivor of the planet Krypton, stood casually with his hands in his pockets like any other bored business traveler waiting for a train. Secretly, however, he used his superior visual powers to scan the crowd in minute detail. Where were Lois and Margo? The evening sun was sinking fast, and the air was getting colder. The train would be leaving any minute. At last he saw two tiny figures hurrying towards him out of the crowd. He recognized them long before anyone else would have as his fellow _Daily Planet_ reporter and her sister.

"Sorry we're late, Mr. Kent," Lois said curtly as she and Margo joined him on the platform. "We had some . . . catching up to do."

"I'm just glad you'll be catching this train," Kent replied hurriedly as he helped Lois and Margo into the car. He followed after a second later, just as the conductor shouted "All aboard!" With a ponderous groan, the Metropolis Flyer began sliding out of the station and gradually picking up speed.

The trio made their way to their adjoining compartments in the sleeper car and made sure their luggage was properly stowed and in order. Margo and Lois would share a berth, and Kent would have the compartment next door all to himself.

"This train's an express, so we should be in New York no later than noon tomorrow," Kent said enthusiastically. "Pretty swell, huh Lois?"

"It's all right, I suppose," Lois answered, as if she'd seen far better. "Don't they have trains back in Smallville?"

"Not like this," Kent gushed. "Say, I hear they've got a first class dining car on this train. Whaddaya say we grab a bite to eat? I'm starved."

"Sounds like a wonderful idea, Clark," Margo offered, "I'll join you."

Lois followed without much enthusiasm, but within minutes they were all seated in the dining car and diving hungrily into their meals. It had been a long, busy day for everyone, and the food was indeed very good.

While Lois and Margo chatted idly over their dinners, Clark Kent scanned the dining car, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary. Soon enough, he found it. At the opposite end of the dining car were two men who seemed to be watching them intently and whispering furtively to each other. Whenever Kent glanced in their direction, they hurriedly looked away and pretended to busy themselves with a menu or a newspaper. Kal-El used his superior hearing to zero in on their conversation.

"You sure she's the one, Butch?" said one man.

"Pretty sure, Spike. She looks like the dame in the pictures the boss gave us," answered the other.

"Who's that guy and the other broad with her?"

"Who cares? They make any trouble, we'll bump 'em off too."

Clark Kent instantly became alert, but he feigned just the opposite. He yawned loudly and stretched elaborately. Lois Lane glared at him.

"Sorry Lois," Kent said apologetically. "Golly, I'm tired all of the sudden. It's been a long day. Well, I guess I'll turn in. I'm beat! If you'll excuse me. Goodnight Lois. Goodnight Margo. See you in the morning."

Lois and Margo said goodnight in return and watched him go. After Kent had left the dining car, Lois turned back to her sister.

"That man!" Lois said, rolling her eyes in disgust.

"What's wrong with him?" Margo asked.

"Oh, I don't know. He's not a bad reporter, but honestly, he acts like the biggest rube sometimes! 'Gee Lois, this train sure is swell, huh?' she said in sarcastic imitation. "You saw how he trips over his own feet all the time, the big lummox!"

"Oh I don't know, Lois," Margo replied. "I think all that bumbling is an act. I think he's hiding something."

"Like what? You think he has a secret like Lamont?"

"I'm not sure," said Margo thoughtfully, "but he doesn't seem like a bad sort. He's very kind and handsome."

"If you like him so much, why don't you make a play for him?" Lois snapped. She regretted this remark almost instantly, realizing that Margo's heart belonged to Lamont Cranston, whom they were going to New York to find--possibly at great risk to themselves. "Look, I shouldn't have said that--" Lois began.

"No, no, it's all right," Margo assured her with a sad smile. "I'm taken. Besides, I think Clark only has eyes for you."

"For me?" Lois replied as if Margo had just suggested something outlandish, or at least something Lois had never considered before. "What makes you say that?"

"Trust me, Lois, a girl knows these things. He blushes like a schoolboy whenever you're around--that's not an act. He speaks to you first. He looks at you first. He wants you to call him by his first name, but you won't, so we have all this silly 'Miss Lane, Mr. Kent' business. It's all so standoffish, so formal! Give him a chance, Lois. He's crazy about you."

Lois Lane pondered this statement in silence for a few seconds, but before she could reply, her conversation with Margo was interrupted by two men approaching their table.

"Miss Lane? Miss Margo Lane?" the first man said. Margo noticed his shifty eyes and thought he needed a shave.

"I'm Margo Lane," she said.

"We're with the railroad line. We're terribly sorry, but there seems to be some sort of problem with your tickets. If you'll come with us, we'll go see the conductor and straighten this out right away," the man said.

"Now?" Margo asked."It's awfully late, and my sister and I are tired. Can't this wait till we get to New York in the morning?"

Margo stood up to leave but the man suddenly grabbed her arm and held it--tightly. At the same instant, Margo felt something cold and hard in the small of her back. The second man took up a similar position behind Lois, whose eyes went wide, as if she too suddenly felt a gun barrel at her back.

"No it can't, sister," the man whispered fiercely in Margo's ear. "Now be a good girl and come along with us, and that rod I got don't go off, see? Now get goin'!"

"Well, all right, since you put it that way, I suppose we'd better," said Margo considerably louder than she would have otherwise, hoping to attract the attention of some other diners. The few passengers still in the dining car, however, failed to notice anything amiss in the conversation.

The foursome marched out of the dining car, through the passenger cars, and into the baggage car near the rear of the train. Margo and Lois shivered in the dimly lit, unheated compartment.

"What are you going to do with us?" Margo demanded.

"Well that depends on you, sister," the first man said. "Y'see, there's a big ravine comin' up in about a half a mile. I'm gonna open this door, and you and your sister can either jump out into the ravine on your own, or Spike and me can blast ya and dump your bodies into the ravine. Either way, you'll be dead. What's it gonna be?"

"Wait a minute," Lois said, stalling for time. "The police will be suspicious if we're the only ones dead at the bottom of that ravine. They'll be even more suspicious if we're down there with two bullet holes in us."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it sister," the man called Butch said. "We go that all figured out too. Y'see, a pal of ours cut down a big tree so it would fall across the track just about the place where that ravine is. You go over the side, the train hits the tree and jumps the track. The cops'll think you got tossed out of the train in the wreck. Cryin' shame, ain't it?" He asked with a vicious grin.

"You'd wreck an entire train and endanger innocent people just to get at us? You monster!" Margo Lane said.

"Listen, baby, it's nothin' personal. It's just business," Butch said calmly.

"Hey Butch, ya better get the door open. The ravine's comin' up soon," the man called Spike said.

"All right," Butch said. He slid the door to the baggage car open. The roar of the train rattling over the rails at full speed and the wind rushing through the open car were deafening. Butch grabbed Margo, spun her around roughly in the open doorway of the car, and with a vicious shove, sent her tumbling out into the darkness. Lois followed a moment later. They awaited their doom.

**End of Chapter VI **


	8. Chapter VII: The Man of Steel

**CHAPTER VII**

**The Man of Steel**

As she hurtled towards the bottom of a deep ravine, Margo Lane experienced a strange sensation. The world, filled just a moment before with the roar of the express train racing past just overhead, and the wind rushing and whistling in her ears, grew oddly silent. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. "Is this it? Is this how my life ends?" she wondered. Her next thought, which she suspected might be her last, was of the man she loved. "Oh Lamont, where are you?" she called out to the darkness, uncertain anyone could even hear her as she plummeted ever faster and ever deeper into the gorge.

In the next moment, incredibly miraculously someone answered her question. "I'm afraid he's not available at the moment, Miss Lane. But don't worry, we'll find him. Right now, though, I think I'd better save you first," said a man's calm but commanding voice out of the night.

In the next moment, Margo felt something even more incredible. A strong, firm hand seemed to pluck her out of the air, hold her steady, and stop her deadly free fall. As she seemed to hang suspended in midair and her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to grasp the incredible truth that a man was indeed holding her up; a man who seemed to be hovering above the bottom of the gorge--flying, even. A crimson cape streamed out behind him in the wind and the moonlight. She sensed who he was, but it seemed too astonishing to fully comprehend.

"Superman?" she asked in amazement. The man nodded and smiled. "How did you . . .? Where did you . . .?" Margo mumbled inarticulately, unable even to frame the questions that were forming furiously in her mind, one after the other.

"Don't worry about a thing, Miss Lane. I've got you," the man said. He tucked her under his right arm as easily as if she were a parcel he'd picked up at the post office.

"You've got me. But who's got you?" she asked incredulously. Superman merely smiled. Suddenly, Margo drew in a breath sharply as panic seized her. "Lois! Where's Lois?" she demanded.

"Look to your left, Miss Lane," Superman said calmly.

Margo turned her head slowly. There, tucked safely under Superman's left arm, cradled the way a halfback might cradle a football, was Lois Lane. Lois caught sight of her sister and gave a tiny wave and a wan smile, as if she too was still bewildered by what had just happened.

Superman rose to the top of the ravine and set the two Lane sisters down on their feet near its edge as easily and gently as if they were two pieces of fine china being returned to a shelf. "There we are," he said. "Are you both all right?"

"We're fine, Superman, but you've got to stop the train," Lois blurted anxiously. "Those two thugs were going to do us in and wreck the train to cover their tracks!"

"Great Scott! Then I've got to hurry! Stay here!" The Man of Steel ordered. With a bound and a brief gust of wind, he was airborne once again, vanishing into the darkness as swiftly as he had come.

* * *

Ed Granger, the engineer on the Metropolis Flyer, peered into the dark, alert for any danger on the tracks or any obstacle to the train's passage. Joe Morton, the conductor, and Nate Hollis, the train guard, sat with him in the cab, passing a thermos of coffee back and forth, trying to keep awake through the long night hours. Granger thought he saw a fallen tree trunk on the track ahead, but he couldn't be sure at this distance. In the next moment, however, he saw something so truly remarkable that he doubted his own eyes. With a great rush of wind, a man seemed to swoop down out of the sky, brush the mighty oak aside as if it were a twig, and take up a position squarely in the middle of the tracks, holding out an arm as if warning the train to stop. Granger gave three long blasts on the train's whistle, but the man refused to budge. In the glare of the huge headlight on the front of the train's engine, the three railroad men could plainly see the newcomer's close fitting blue costume emblazoned with a yellow diamond-shaped shield bearing a large red S. 

"Holy mackerel!" Ed Granger shouted. "Hey, fellas, did ya see that? It's Superman!"

"Of course I seen it!" Morton answered. "Hit the brakes, Ed, hit the brakes!"

The engineer did his utmost, but it was impossible to bring the mammoth train to a halt in such a short distance. Even at greatly reduced speeds, the Metropolis Flyer would have obliterated any ordinary man foolish enough to stand in its way, but The Last Son of Krypton was no ordinary man. The Man of Steel leaned forward, planting his feet and extending his arms outward, using his titanic strength, in effect, to catch the train and bring the mighty locomotive to a stop as gently as if it were sliding into the station.

The engineer, conductor, and train guard quickly scrambled from the cab, still astonished at what they had seen.

"Superman!" Granger asked anxiously, "Are you all right?"

"If you hadn't stopped us when you did, we'd be goners for sure," Morton added.

"I'm fine gentlemen, but unless I miss my guess, the two men who planned that wreck are still on your train," Superman answered, "Two men calling themselves Butch and Spike. If you'll excuse me."

Once again, he leaped into the air, soaring over the length of the train and using his X-ray vision to peer into the cars and locate the two criminals. In a moment, he saw two men racing for the rear of the train, apparently hoping to make their escape. Superman dove through a skylight in the top of one of the passenger cars ahead of the men, planning to intercept the escapees. There was a dramatic crash of glass as Superman plunged through the skylight and took up a position, just as Butch and Spike entered the car.

When they saw who awaited them, the two felons immediately reversed course, but before they could escape, The Man of Tomorrow used his extraordinary speed to race ahead of them and clap a hand on each of their shoulders, locking both men in an iron grip. Superman lifted both Butch and Spike off their feet and looked fearlessly into their eyes. The criminals, by contrast, cringed and looked away.

"Please, Superman, don't hurt us," Butch whimpered.

"Why, Butch," Superman answered. "It's nothing personal. It's just business." With that, The Man of Steel knocked the two felons' heads together and dropped both men to the floor, where they lay dazed and senseless. Moments later, Granger the engineer, Morton the conductor, and Hollis the guard burst into the car. Hollis had his gun drawn.

"Here they are gentlemen," Superman said. "I don't think these two will be any more trouble. Please make sure no one else on the train is injured. If you'll excuse me again."

"Right, Superman. We'll take it from here," Granger answered. But almost before the engineer could reply, The Man of Steel had vaulted up through the skylight and into the darkness..

* * *

Whenever they tried to recall the incident later, the next few minutes were always a blur to Lois and Margo Lane. They shivered in the cold and the dark waiting for Superman to return. Then with a gust of wind and an iron grip he was there, and they were soaring into the night, back towards the train. He set them down gently in the grass beside the tracks, entrusting them to the conductor, who brought them back aboard. 

Superman himself dove through the broken skylight and made his way quickly and quietly to the sleeping car. Moments later, a bleary-eyed, pajama clad Clark Kent emerged from his berth, as Lois and Margo were making their way back to their own bunks escorted by the conductor.

"Golly, Lois, what's all the racket?"Kent asked with a yawn. Other passengers poked their heads out sleepily, curious at all the commotion.

"Oh, Clark, it was wonderful! Superman saved us!" Margo exclaimed.

"That's right, and Mr. Ace Reporter here missed the whole story," Lois snorted. "Superman saved us, prevented a train wreck, and captured two crooks, but he"--she jerked a thumb angrily at Clark Kent--"he slept through the whole thing!"

**End of Chapter VII**


	9. Chapter VIII: On the Trail

**CHAPTER VIII**

**On the Trail**

The Metropolis Flyer arrived in New York a little before noon the next day without incident, only slightly behind schedule despite the remarkable events of the night before. Clark Kent and Margo and Lois Lane made their way to Margo's townhouse to plan their next move.

"The first thing we need to know is Cranston's last known whereabouts on the night he disappeared," Kent said.

"According to Burbank, the head of the Shadow's agents, The Shadow had gotten a tip that something big was happening at a warehouse on the corner of Lexington and 29th," Margo answered. "We've given the police an anonymous tip, and they've gone over the place with a fine-toothed comb, but they can't find anything unusual. Just a perfectly ordinary, everyday warehouse. Everything seems legitimate and above board."

"Hmm. No help there, I suppose," Kent mused. "All right, the next thing we need to know is what Dietrich was up to. Then we might be able to figure out why he's interested in Lamont Cranston, and that could lead us to where Cranston might be."

"That should be easy enough," Lois said confidently, "We've got two top-notch reporters on the case."

"But Lois, you're forgetting, this isn't exactly our case or our town. We don't know the players, and we don't have many contacts," Kent pointed out.

"I may be able to help there," Margo offered. "One of The Shadow's agents is a man called Clyde Burke, a reporter for the _Classic_, one of the smaller papers here in town. I could call him and see what he knows."

Margo was about to reach for the telephone to call Burke, when Lois stopped her. "Wait a minute, Margo," she said. "Do you think that's wise? If we bring your friend Burke in on this, there's a good chance he'll figure out that Lamont Cranston and The Shadow are one and the same. It seems to me that the fewer people there are who know Lamont's secret, the safer he'll be."

"That's a chance we'll have to take," Margo answered grimly, and that was the end of the discussion. Margo telephoned Burke and explained the situation. The reporter answered that he was on his way out of the office to cover another story but would stop by briefly afterwards to share what he knew. It was early evening by the time he arrived. Lois was immediately drawn to the man because of his energy and confidence. The attraction seemed to be mutual.

"I've got a source down at City Hall who owes me a few favors," Burke said when he arrived. "I could have him track down all the paperwork Dietrich filed to get a license for his import-export company. That could tell us something."

"Good idea, Burke," Lois Lane said, "You sound like a reporter or something. Only I want to come along when you have a look at Dietrich's business license."

"Only on two conditions, Miss Lane," he said.

"Which are?"

"Condition one, the _Classic_ gets to break the story first."

"But" . . . Lois sputtered.

"Is it a deal, or isn't it, Miss Lane?" Burke insisted.

"It's a deal, Mr. Burke," Lois said reluctantly. "What else?"

"Condition two--and I hope this makes up for condition one--you'll let me buy you dinner after," he said with a hopeful smile.

Lois considered for a moment, but waited before replying. She was clearly attracted to the man, but something was holding her back. She cast a curious glance at Clark Kent, as if suddenly seeing him for the first time. Kent noticed her expression with equal puzzlement but said nothing. Finally Lois turned back to Burke.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burke, dinner is off. But I'm still coming with you to City Hall," she insisted.

"Suit yourself, Miss Lane. Since you have a personal interest in this story, and since I'm such a nice guy, I don't suppose I can keep you from coming along. But I am disappointed about dinner."

"Maybe some other time," Lois said with an apologetic smile and another glance back at Kent. "Well, let's get going," she said briskly, as if determined to change the subject. "Don't wait up, Clark," she said to Kent with an impish smile as she slammed the door.

"Don't worry, I won't," he answered, more puzzled and perturbed than he'd care to admit. He stared at the door for a few seconds until he felt a soft tap on his shoulder and heard a soft but deliberate cough behind him. He whirled to face Margo Lane.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Clark, I didn't mean to--" she began.

"It's all right, Margo," he said. "I wonder what that was all about," he murmured, pointing a thumb back over his shoulder at the door through which Lois had just left. "Did you see that? Usually she won't give me the time of day, but she turned down that dinner date with Burke . . . "

"Well, I might have had a little something to do with that," Margo said casually. "You see, after you went to bed last night, Lois and I got to talking. The conversation came around to you and . . ."

"And you told her that I . . . And she . . . Thank you!" he said at last. It was almost a whisper.

"Don't mention it--ever again," she said with a wink.

Now it was Kent's turn to cough. "Yes. Well. Umm . . ."

"Back to business, Clark," Margo said sharply. "Lois and Burke have their assignments. What do we do?"

Clark Kent quickly recovered himself. "Margo," he said calmly, "We are going to see Inspector Joe Cardona."

* * *

Inspector Joe Cardona of the New York Police Department sighed and ran his hands wearily through his hair, effectively ruining the careful combing he had given it that morning. It was curly, dark, and thick, as it was for many people of his Italian ancestry, and just beginning to go gray at the temples. He'd already loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. It had been a long day and he was more than ready to go home. He rubbed his swarthy chin with a large hand and looked at Margo Lane steadily through his dark black eyes. 

"For the tenth time, Miss Lane, we don't have any direct evidence that Karl Dietrich is involved in the disappearance of your friend Mr. Cranston," Cardona said. "Sure, they quarreled, and shortly thereafter Mr. Cranston disappeared, but that's all circumstantial. If you want me to go before a judge and get a warrant, I need something solid. Evidence, Miss Lane. I need evidence. My detectives and I have questioned Dietrich until we're blue in the face, but he's clammed up and he's got the best lawyers in town working for him. We've got nothing to go on. If we try to bring him in, he can sue us for false arrest."

"I understand, Inspector," Margo said quietly.

"Look, Miss Lane, I sympathize, I really do. Mr. Cranston's helped out this department more times than I can count. I've been getting calls from Commissioner Weston himself every day, and I've got my best men working on this, but until I get something solid, I'm afraid there's not much I can do."

"I see. Well, thank you for your time, Inspector." Margo stood up to leave, and Clark Kent stepped forward to help her with her coat.

"Thank you, Inspector. We know you're doing the best you can," Kent said, extending his hand.

"You're welcome, Mr. . . . Kent, was it? If you don't mind my asking, what's your angle? I still don't see what a reporter from Metropolis has to do with all this," Cardona said.

"I told you before. I'm here to cover a story for my paper, and I've been asked to look into this matter unofficially as . . . a friend of the family," Kent answered.

"Uh huh," Cardona murmured, as if he weren't completely convinced. "Just remember that _officially_ this matter is still an active police investigation, and we don't like outsiders, no matter how noble their intentions, meddling in police business."

"I'll keep that in mind, Inspector," Kent said. It wasn't the first time he'd heard such a warning, he added to himself.

Clark and Margo said their final goodbyes and left. Out on the street, they turned to each other.

"Well, that went nowhere," Kent said in frustration. "Now what?"

"You heard the man," Margo replied evenly. "He needs evidence that Karl was mixed up in Lamont's disappearance. What if we got him some?"

"What are you suggesting? That we _steal_ something that proves Dietrich is in on it?"

Margo Lane pretended to be shocked. "Why, Mr. Kent! Not stealing! That would be illegal." She paused a moment. "But how would you feel about a little breaking and entering?" she added with a wicked grin.

Clark Kent rolled his eyes. If his guess about what Margo had in mind was correct, it was going to be a very interesting evening. He wondered how Lois and Burke were getting along.

* * *

Clyde Burke let out a low, awe-struck whistle as he regarded the papers in the file folder in front of him. He and Lois Lane stood in a dark, cramped file room in the municipal building in Manhattan poring over the application Karl Dietrich had submitted for his business license. 

"Hey, Lois, look at this," Burke said. "Look who's listed as a partner in your pal Dietrich's company."

Lois Lane drew in her breath sharply. "Uncle Renfield!" she whispered.

"Yeah, and that ain't all. Accordin' to this, Dietrich's got big plans for your uncle's money. He's got branch offices in nearly every major city in the country--Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Boston, Los Angeles--the list goes on for pages."

There was a sharp rap on the door and a nervous, balding man with thick glasses poked his head into the room. "Are you guys done in here yet? If anybody finds out about this, I could lose my job," he said anxiously.

"Sure thing, Milt," Clyde Burke replied, "We've got everything we need. Thanks a lot. I owe ya one, buddy."

"That's what you said the last time," Milt muttered.

"We need to get this information to Clark and Margo right away," Lois said grimly. "I wonder how they're doing?"

* * *

Margo Lane peered through the darkness at the third story window of the townhouse, the window she thought marked Karl Dietrich's study. Margo and Clark were watching Dietrich's townhouse covertly from across the street looking for a way in, but the wrought iron fence that circled the property looked daunting. The lights were out, however, and no one appeared to be home.

"Are you sure that's it?" Clark Kent asked, standing beside her.

"Pretty sure. I was only here once," Margo replied.

"I hope you're right," Clark said. "Well, if we're going to do this, let's go."

They sprinted across the darkened, deserted street and tried the back gate of the fence. It was securely locked. Margo tugged on the bars in frustration.

"Let me try," Clark whispered. Using his titanic strength, the Man of Steel forced two of the bars just far enough apart to allow himself and Margo to slip through. He had to do it subtly and covertly, however, since he was still in the guise of Clark Kent.

"How . . . How did you do that?" Margo hissed as loud as she dared, her eyes wide with amazement.

"Uh . . . the bars must've been rusty," Kent whispered back.

"But--"

Kent put a finger to his lips, ending further conversation, and they raced across the lawn to the back of the house. Margo tried the back door and found it as securely locked as she expected, but the lock on this door was going to require something much more robust than the hairpin or skeleton key she often used in such situations. She tugged on the doorknob fruitlessly in frustration.

"Oh, now what!" she hissed. She stared up at a tree that grew nearly as tall as the third story window of the house and then made a move to start climbing it, but Kent stopped her.

"Margo! Down here!" he hissed back.

Margo scrambled down from the tree and hurried over to join Clark Kent. The back door of Dietrich's townhouse, which had been securely locked moments before, now stood wide open. While Margo had been busy climbing the tree, the Last Son of Krypton focused a beam of his X-ray vision on the doorknob, essentially shattering the bolt holding the door in place. Margo shot Clark Kent a quizzical look, but he put a finger to his lips again, and they crept into the house, looking for a back staircase.

Soon enough they found it and began working their way upstairs, their path lit only by the flashlight each carried. When they reached the top of the stairs, Margo hesitated a moment and pointed silently in what she thought was the direction of Dietrich's study. Her guess was right. The door was easily unlocked with Margo's skeleton key, and as they entered the darkened room, Clark and Margo could make out the dim shapes of Dietrich's desk, the sideboard, and bookshelves all along the walls. They moved quickly to the desk but found nothing helpful on its polished surface. Dietrich was tidy as well as thorough, moving all his papers back to his locked filing cabinet at the end of each day. Clark Kent let his flashlight play over the bookshelves, where something caught his eye.

"What is it?" Margo whispered.

"These books," Kent whispered back, "they're all about the occult. Your friend Dietrich has interesting reading habits." Kent let his flashlight play over the bookshelves again and began to pull books off the shelves and leaf through them excitedly. "This one's in Hebrew, that one's in Arabic, here's one in Chinese, and another in Hindi," he said. "They're all about . . . alchemy, necromancy, mental telepathy, mind control, invisibility . . ."

Margo looked at the books uncomprehendingly. Many of them were heavy, old, leather-bound volumes with ponderous titles in Latin, German, French, or other languages Margo couldn't even begin to decipher. Clark Kent, however, seemed to know them all. Jor-El, Krypton's leading scientist, had schooled his son well, teaching the child all of earth's languages, both during his rocket ship's long voyage from Krypton and through the memory crystals in Kal-El's hidden Arctic lair, the Fortress of Solitude. To Margo Lane, however, Clark Kent was only a reporter from Smallville and Metropolis, and she was astonished that he knew such things.

"Who are you?" she whispered fiercely. "How do you know all this? What does it mean?"

"I think I know, but there isn't time to explain," Kent shot back. "We have to get out of here right now. Here, help me with these books." Clark and Margo began replacing the books on the shelves, but as they reached for one old codex, it slid to the floor with a thud. A moment later they heard footsteps moving toward the study.

"_Mein Herr_?" a voice called. "_Mein Herr_, is that you?"

Clark and Margo froze for an instant, and then Clark motioned for Margo to go out the window while he locked the door and moved a chair in front of it. The footsteps stopped. A hand tried the doorknob, and an instant later, a fist pounded on the door.

"Open this door at once!" demanded a voice that Margo recognized as Schmidt's. "I am armed. If you do not open this door immediately, I shall come after you and deal with you myself. Open this door! Open this door, I say!"

Clark Kent scrambled across the room and joined Margo Lane on the window ledge.

"What do we do now, Mr. Genius?" Margo snapped.

"As I recall, it was your idea to break in here," Kent shot back. "There's nothing for it but to jump."

"Are you crazy? That's three stories down!"

"Don't worry, I'll catch you. Besides, if you have a better idea, now's the time."

While they had been talking, they heard the rattle of a key in the lock and Schmidt's cursing in English and German as he struggled with the chair blocking the doorway. They jumped just as Margo heard a powerful bang and Schmidt succeeded in forcing the chair out of the way. Margo expected to fall rapidly and painfully to the ground, but instead she felt a firm grip on her shoulder and seemed to float, with almost incredible gentleness, to earth. She had felt that sensation once before--in the company of Superman--but she looked over, and only Clark Kent of Smallville and Metropolis held her.

She had little time to ponder all of this, because as soon as their feet hit the ground, Clark and Margo raced across the lawn to the back fence and squeezed through the gap in the bars Clark had created. They heard the loud reports of pistol shots and felt bullets rush past them. They heard Schmidt loudly cursing in English and German and calling for the police as they dashed across the street and Clark went in search of a taxi to take them back to Margo's apartment.

**End of Chapter VIII **


	10. Chapter IX: A Council of War

**CHAPTER IX**

**A Council of War**

Lois Lane and Clyde Burke arrived back at Margo Lane's townhouse first and had just sat down when Margo and Clark Kent burst through the door.

"Well," said Burke, looking over at them from an armchair, "you two look like you've had an interesting evening."

"I'll say," Clark Kent answered, "if you call burglary, assault with a deadly weapon, and escaping in the nick of time interesting."

"Good grief!" Lois exclaimed, jumping up to join her sister. "What happened? Margo, are you all right?"

"Yes, Lois, I'm fine. I'm just a little shaken up," replied Margo, who still looked pale. Lois ushered Margo to the sofa and the two sisters sat down. Kent pulled up another chair beside Burke and quickly recounted the story of their break-in at Dietrich's home, their discovery in his library, and their narrow escape from Schmidt.

"My, you have been busy," Lois said with a touch of surprise and admiration, "but let's get right to the point. "Did you get the goods on Karl Dietrich?"

"I think we have," Clark replied. "Those books we found--they're all about hypnosis, invisibility, the power of suggestion--all powers of The Shadow."

"Dietrich's trying to learn the secret of The Shadow!" Lois guessed. "Can you imagine what a man like Karl Dietrich would do with that kind of power?"

"But Lois, I'm not sure it would be just one man," Burke interjected, "Remember what we saw downtown tonight? According to his business license application, Dietrich's got plans to build a branch office in every major city in the country."

"Oh, Clark, do you really think that's Dietrich's plan? To put his men--his own little Shadows--all across the country?" Margo asked anxiously.

"If what Burke says is true, I'm almost sure of it," Kent said. "He's probably been acquiring those books as a backup plan in case he can't learn the secret from Cranston."

"Lamont would never willingly reveal the power of The Shadow to anyone," Margo said confidently, "not even to me."

"Yes, Margo, I know he wouldn't willingly do it," Kent said, "but what about unwillingly?"

Margo put her hand to her mouth in horror as she considered the possibility. Kent continued.

"And even worse, what if Dietrich can use those books to learn the secret without Cranston? If that happens, he may not even need Lamont alive."

Margo recoiled as she considered this new horror. Kent stood up suddenly.

"We may not have much time," he said anxiously. "I . . . I have to go."

"Go? Go where? Why?" Lois asked.

"To . . . to call in the story, of course!" Kent snapped. "I've got to get to our New York bureau, put a story on the wire, and call Mr. White back in Metropolis. Margo, get on the phone, call Inspector Cardona, and tell him to send every man he's got back to that warehouse. Something big will break tonight, and they'll find Lamont Cranston. I guarantee it. Now hurry."

Clark Kent bolted for the door, but Lois raced after him. "Oh, no you don't, buster! You're not getting an exclusive byline while I'm around! This is my story too, you know." Lois Lane chased after her fellow_Daily Planet_ reporter as fast as she could, but by the time she reached the bottom of the steps in front of Margo Lane's townhouse, Clark Kent had disappeared.

**End of Chapter IX**


	11. Chapter X: Rescue

**CHAPTER X**

**Rescue**

Clark Kent raced down the street at top speed, looking frantically for any place to perform his transformation into Superman unobserved. Soon enough he found it--a flight of steps leading down to the nearest subway platform, deserted at that hour of night. A passerby would have seen a man bolt down the steps, and a dark, blurred manlike shape seem to rush, leap, and finally fly from the opening. Seconds later, something streaked across the night sky. Pedestrians on the streets far below looked up, first in curiosity, then in amazement.

"Hey! What's that?"

"Look! Up in the sky!"

"It's a bird!"

"It's a plane!"

"It's Superman!"

"Superman! Holy cow! What's he doing here?"

The citizens of New York immediately began to speculate about the answer to this question while searchlights activated throughout the city confirmed that it was indeed The Man of Steel, rocketing through the night sky in the direction of a certain warehouse on the corner of Lexington Avenue and 29th Street in Manhattan. As he drew near his destination, the Last Son of Krypton periodically cast beams of his X-ray vision toward the ground, piercing the walls of buildings where Lamont Cranston might be hidden.

Finally, Superman reached the warehouse, and his extraordinary powers confirmed what his intuition had suspected. In a tiny carefully concealed room at the rear of the building, a group of men clustered around another man, immobile and inert in a chair. Dietrich and his henchmen were apparently still interrogating Cranston--if Cranston were still alive. Superman bore down on the warehouse like a dive bomber, blasting a hole through its outer wall and terrifying the two gunmen who stood guard just inside the entrance. One thug tried to rush Superman, but the Man of Steel easily felled him with a single blow. The second thug fired a volley of shots at Superman with his revolver, but the bullets bounced harmlessly away. Superman rushed the second thug, grabbed the gun, crushed it into a lump of twisted metal, and sent the gangster sprawling against a far wall.

By this time, more thugs poured from the interior of the warehouse, armed with automatics and tommy guns. The crooks carrying machine guns aimed a fearful fusillade at the Last Son of Krypton, but he reacted to the bullets as if they were raindrops. He overpowered the gunmen and rushed to the innermost room where he could see Lamont Cranston slumped silently in a chair, head bowed under the light of a single naked bulb. Superman raced to Cranston's chair and easily undid the manacles binding his wrists.

"Don't worry, Mr. Cranston. I'm here to rescue you," The Man of Tomorrow said confidently.

"Watch . . . out . . . Dietrich . . . Black . . . still here . . ." Cranston rasped back.

Suddenly Superman caught sight of two dim, shadowy figures lurking behind a pile of crates near Cranston's chair. Karl Dietrich and Gunther Black were hoping to get the drop on the Man of Steel, but he wasn't startled or even surprised. He strode toward makeshift barricade and flung the crates aside as if they weighed nothing. Dietrich fired a Luger repeatedly, emptying a clip full of bullets in Superman's direction, but the Last Son of Krypton brushed them aside as if they were a cloud of mosquitoes. Superman advanced on Dietrich and Black, who were now apparently unable to decide between cringing in the corner and scrambling for the back door of the warehouse.

"Karl Dietrich, I presume," Superman growled in righteous anger. "Put down that gun and get your hands up! I've heard a lot about you and what you've been up to--kidnapping and espionage, for starters. I'm going to enjoy turning you over to the authorities and seeing you get what you deserve. I'll . . ."

As Dietrich raised his hands in apparent surrender, however, Superman suddenly felt weak. He staggered and his knees buckled. He felt nearly as feeble as Cranston, still slumped in the chair just behind him. Dietrich and Superman gazed at each other in astonishment, unable to guess the reason for the Man of Steel's sudden collapse. It was Gunther, of all people, who deduced the truth.

"Hey, boss!" he shouted, "look at your ring."

Dietrich glanced up at the elaborate gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. The large green stone was glowing wildly in the semidarkness of the warehouse. Superman staggered backward, hoping to use the last of his ebbing strength to protect the still weakened Cranston, whom he had come to rescue.

Now it was Dietrich's turn to advance. "_Ach, so_!" he exclaimed in amazement. "What is the matter, Herr Superman? You do not like my pretty ring? Perhaps you would like to examine it more closely," he said as a slow, cruel grin spread over his face. Dietrich turned the ring so that the stone faced outward in Superman's direction. Superman continued to weaken. As he walked, Dietrich retrieved the discarded Luger, reached inside his coat pocket, and rammed another clip into the pistol. "Now we shall see who gets what they deserve," he snarled.

Dietrich leveled his pistol and was about to fire, but in a desperate bid to protect the man he had come to save, Superman gathered the last of his strength, cradled the half conscious Cranston in his arms and burst through the skylight of the warehouse at tremendous speed, rocketing into the night sky where he could see the whole city spread out before him.

**End of Chapter X **


	12. Chapter XI: Reunion

**CHAPTER XI**

**Reunion**

Superman hovered above the whole vast city of New York for several moments, scanning both the ground and the horizon, as if he were searching for something.

"What . . . What is it?" Cranston rasped.

"I'm looking for the nearest hospital," Superman answered. "We need to get you to a doctor right away."

"No . . . hospital . . ." Cranston said with difficulty, "too . . . many . . . questions . . . for you . . . for me . . . for Margo. Go to . . . Margo's apartment."

"Are you sure? You need medical attention now!" Superman said urgently.

"Margo . . . knows what to do . . . She knows . . . doctor . . . who'll help . . . keep it quiet."

"But--"

Cranston gathered the last of his strength and spoke in his Shadow voice. "Do it!" Cranston ordered, in a tone so weird, so penetrating, that even the Last Son of Krypton had difficulty refusing. After a moment's consideration, however, Kal-El realized that Cranston was right. The sudden dramatic reappearance of Lamont Cranston in the company of Superman would provoke awkward questions among the police and the press that could compromise the secret identities of both men. The Man of Steel wheeled in the sky and returned the way he had come, setting the weakened Cranston down gently on the curb in front of the townhouse after first making sure the street was deserted.

Superman led Cranston up the steps to the front door and rapped urgently. Margo came to the door and gazed at her visitors in shocked, disbelieving astonishment.

"Special delivery," Superman quipped.

"Oh Lamont!" Margo exclaimed, "You're home! You've come back! Oh, darling, you've come back!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.

"Easy! Easy there, Miss Lane," Superman interjected. "He's been through quite an ordeal. Let's get him inside."

"Yes, of course, you're right," Margo said distractedly, "We can put him in the spare bedroom down the hall there," she added, pointing.

Superman and Margo Lane eased the battered Cranston down the hall and into bed and then gathered for an anxious, hushed conference in the living room. Superman briefly told her what had happened.

"I don't know how to thank you," Margo said tearfully to The Man of Steel. "You saved Lamont and brought him back to me."

"It's all right, Miss Lane. Knowing that Lamont is alive is thanks enough," Superman answered modestly. "I'm still worried about him, though. He needs medical attention, but he refused to go to the hospital and insisted I bring him here. He said you'd know what to do."

"Yes," Margo replied. "Lamont and I agreed that if anything like this ever happened, we'd call a friend of ours, Dr. Roland Adams. He's been a great help in the past. He doesn't know the truth about Lamont, but he has his suspicions. Nevertheless, he's very professional and . . . very discreet."

"Well, of course you're free to do as you think best, Miss Lane," Superman said reluctantly. Then as if truly noticing his surroundings for the first time, he suddenly asked, "Miss Lane, where's Lois?"

"Oh, Lois ran off to Dietrich's warehouse with Burke right after Clark Kent left. She said something about not letting Kent get an exclusive while she was around," Margo explained.

"Always the reporter, that Lois," Superman said with a brief chuckle. "I imagine she'll have quite a story when all this is said and done--but it's not over yet. If you'll excuse me, I still have to finish with Dietrich once and for all. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine. And you be careful," Margo said firmly. She watched in astonishment as The Man of Steel rather unceremoniously vaulted out of her window and into the night. She was about to head for the telephone to call Dr. Adams when she heard a low moan from the spare bedroom. Lamont Cranston was awake.

"Shhh, now, darling, it's all right. You're safe now," Margo said soothingly.

"Margo, what's happened?" asked Lamont Cranston uncertainly.

"Everything's all right, darling. Superman rescued you from that awful Karl Dietrich. The law will deal with him soon enough," Margo replied. Then almost to herself, she added, "I just wish Uncle Renfield wasn't mixed up in all this."

At the mention of Renfield Lane's name, a curious expression, like a sudden flash of insight, passed across Lamont Cranston's face and was gone.

"Margo," he said gamely, "I am feeling a little bit better. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?"

"Of course not, dear. And while I'm gone, I'll telephone Dr. Adams. I'll be right back."

"Sounds like a good idea," said Lamont, as he eased his head back onto the pillow with a wan smile.

Margo left the room and quickly telephoned the doctor. She apologized for calling him at home so late in the evening and improvised a story about Lamont's being injured in a riding accident with one of his polo ponies. Adams sounded skeptical, as if he didn't fully believe Margo's explanation, but promised he would come over as soon as possible.

Margo then went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water from the tap, and marched purposefully back to the spare bedroom.

"Here's your water, Lamont. I called Dr. Adams and he--" she began.

Margo Lane stopped in the doorway of her spare bedroom and gaped with astonishment. The bedclothes were thrown back. The bed was empty. The window was open, and the curtains fluttered slightly in the night breeze. Lamont Cranston was gone.

**End of Chapter XI**


	13. Chapter XII: Reckoning

**CHAPTER XII**

**Reckoning**

The large, corpulent man thrashed about uneasily in his bed. His conscience troubled him, and sleep eluded him. He sweated profusely as he tossed and turned. He started up at every sound, every whisper in the night, only to dismiss it as nothing and sink back restlessly to his pillow. Now, however, a new sound seemed to come to him out of the darkness--a strange, mocking laugh followed by a weird voice calling his name--a voice that sounded to the guilty man like a trumpet of doom.

"Renfield Lane," the voice said. A moment later, the name was repeated.

"What is it? Who's there?" the man snapped back, now wide awake and certain this was no dream.

"I am called The Shadow," the weird voice answered.

"The Shadow! What do you want with me?" Renfield Lane cried out in terror.

"I want much from you, but perhaps your conscience and your country's honor demand more. Some two weeks ago you met with a man called Karl Dietrich at the Cobalt Club, did you not?"

Y--Y--Yes," Lane stammered.

"This man Dietrich is an agent of a foreign power--a power that is striving to dominate the world and means your country ill. He wanted you to do something for him, didn't he? What did he want you to do?" The Shadow demanded.

I . . . I don't know anything about that. As far as I know, Karl Dietrich is just a young man of business and he--"

A mocking peal of laughter interrupted Renfield Lane. "You're lying!" The Shadow snapped back. "The Shadow knows Karl Dietrich is no mere 'man of business.' Perhaps you would like me to turn you over to his tender mercies so that you can find out for yourself?"

"No, no, anything but that! I'll tell you anything you want to know!" Renfield Lane shouted.

"Then tell the truth this time, and speak quickly. The future of the nation may depend on it. What do you know of Dietrich's plans? What did he want you to do?"

"He . . . He wanted me to . . . to use my influence to secure entry visas for his men . . . from Germany. As I was a respected businessman, I could vouch for them."

"And did you?"

"Yes. They were to arrive at the port of New York the day after tomorrow--on a steamer, the _Sea Eagle_, out of Bremerhaven--and fan out across the country. Some two dozen of them. Then Dietrich's network would be in place. And I . . . I would be safe."

"Safe? How?"

"If I cooperated, I would receive cash payments that would . . . that would replace the money I . . . embezzled from Lane Industries to cover my gambling debts. If I didn't . . . Dietrich swore he would let Matthias know just how much I had stolen from the company. I'd spent nearly everything I had! I couldn't let that happen, Shadow! I just couldn't."

Renfield Lane broke down completely, sobbing like a little child. The Shadow, however, remained stern.

"So you resorted to treason to hide the fact of your greed and foolishness?" The Shadow said incredulously. "Still," he continued, "you have found some measure of redemption in telling me the truth, Renfield Lane. Because of this, it may go easier with you when you stand before the bar of justice. You have learned that the weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. You will answer for what you have done--either to the forces of the law--or to The Shadow."

There was one last burst of mocking laughter, and Renfield Lane was alone again in the darkness.

* * *

While Renfield Lane was being confronted by The Shadow, Karl Dietrich had no interest in facing the forces of justice. In fact, he and his manservant Schmidt were frantically racing about trying to destroy any evidence that they had ever occupied the plush townhouse Dietrich had rented.

"I will see to the files. You destroy the code books and smash the radio set. Hurry you fool!" Dietrich roared when Schmidt failed to move fast enough.

"At once, _Mein Herr_!" Schmidt yelped, and scurried over to the bookshelves in the study where a short wave radio and code books were hidden behind ponderous volumes of an old encyclopedia. Meanwhile, Dietrich took a ring of keys from his pocket, jammed one into the lock of his filing cabinet, jerked open a drawer, and scooped up an armload of files. He was about to turn for the basement incinerator when the study window collapsed--the very window from which Clark Kent and Margo Lane had escaped--and a blur of blue, red, and yellow flashed into the room. Superman had returned.

Schmidt drew a pistol from inside his coat, but Superman reached out and crushed the barrel without even taking the gun from the servant's hand. The Man of Steel decked the butler with a single punch and whirled to face Dietrich, who regarded his adversary with a maniacal grin.

"I'll take those files, Dietrich," Superman said firmly, "and anything else incriminating that might send you to prison--where you belong."

"I think not, Herr Superman," Dietrich retorted. "Have you forgotten my pretty ring?" Once again, Dietrich held up his hand stone outward and advanced toward the son of Jor-El. Even as Dietrich drew closer, Superman felt himself weakening.

"Oh, don't worry about me, _Mein Herr_," Superman shot back defiantly, mimicking the obsequious servant, "it'll take more than a little rock on your finger to get me down."

Dietrich pulled an automatic from his coat emptied another clip full of bullets at Superman, but even in his weakened state the hero was unaffected by the pistol shots. Half in frustration and half in savage glee, Dietrich threw the automatic aside and continued to advance. He went into a wrestling posture, first locking arms with the Man of Steel and forcing him to his knees. Then as Superman continued to weaken, Dietrich locked his hands around Superman's throat.

"I shall enjoy killing America's great hero with my bare hands, Herr Superman," Dietrich snarled. "You were either very brave or very foolish to face me alone."

"But he's not alone, Dietrich," said a weird, penetrating voice from somewhere behind the spy. This pronouncement was followed by a long peal of mocking laughter. To Superman, the room seemed to grow suddenly and dramatically darker as a huge, irregular black blotch appeared on the wall and on the floor--a huge black shadow.

Dietrich's hands suddenly released their grip on Superman's throat, and an instant later Dietrich's arms flew up in the air, as if the spy were now caught in a wrestling hold himself. The German agent turned and twisted, grappling and battling with some unseen foe. Even with his superior vision, Superman could catch only occasional glimpses of a tall, manlike shape that seemed to be clad in a billowing black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat. Dietrich struggled to land punches against this ebony phantom, as if he were boxing with the wind, but The Shadow's black-gloved blows seemed to be making solid and repeated contact with Dietrich's face and body.

Dietrich's nearly invisible assailant seemed to be dragging him inexorably toward the window where Superman had entered. As they stood before the now shattered window, which freely admitted the cold night air, Dietrich and The Shadow seemed to enter into even more desperate combat. Finally, a tendril of the inky blackness seemed to reach up, clasp the ring on Dietrich's hand and wrest it from him. An instant later, the ring seemed to sail out of the window by itself, as the black hand of the nearly invisible Shadow hurled it far into the night. Dietrich made one last frantic lunge for the ring and leaned out too far to keep his balance. Too late he realized his error, and with a bloodcurdling cry, mingled with the sounds of breaking wood and shattering glass, he fell.

For an instant all was silence. Then the mysterious inky blackness seemed to coalesce and solidify into a manlike shape. The figure looked down and seemed to shake its head briefly. Then it strode over to the corner of the room, removed a glove, and extended a long white hand to Superman in order to help him to his feet. The Last Son of Krypton did not seem intimidated by the ominous figure, clad mostly in black. The only flash of color came from a red bandana, worn around the stranger's face like a mask.

"That was a close one," the Man of Steel admitted. "Thank you . . . Lamont."

"Just returning the favor . . . Clark," the black clad figure said.

Superman blinked. "How did you . . . ?"

"The Shadow knows."

For the briefest moment, Superman thought he saw the piercing black eyes, obscured by the brim of the slouch hat, twinkle with a flash of amusement. Then the conversation turned serious again.

"Dietrich?" Superman asked.

The Shadow gestured wordlessly to the window. Superman stepped to the sill and looked down. The body of Karl Dietrich lay on the ground three stories below, his head, arms, and legs splayed out at unnatural angles. A branch of the tall tree near the window appeared to be stained with dark blood. There could be no question. Karl Dietrich was dead.

**End of Chapter XII**


	14. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

The Shadow seemed to vanish into the darkness just a moment later, as he heard the wail of sirens from police cars approaching the house. Superman likewise thought it prudent to disappear, as he still needed to explain Clark Kent's absence during most of the evening's events. He flew to the New York offices of the _Daily Planet_, transformed himself into Clark Kent, and wrote a deliberately bland, unexciting story crediting Inspector Joe Cardona and his squad of detectives with extraordinary police work in finding Lamont Cranston. Cardona and his men had in fact arrested Schmidt and Renfield Lane, and with their full confessions, the police were also able to nab Dietrich's boatload of lieutenants and the Gunther Black gang, so the story was at least partially true. Honoring the agreement he and Lois had made with Burke, he repeated Burke's cover story in the _Classic_ that Dietrich and his men were simply extortionists holding Cranston for ransom and omitted any mention of Dietrich's espionage plot. This story was eventually repeated by all the other New York papers.

To Lois he gave the far more exciting task of writing about the final battle between Superman, The Shadow, and Dietrich. "Witnesses said all three of them were in Dietrich's townhouse at the same time!" she said, amazed at the very thought. "Would've made a heck of a story to see firsthand," she added wistfully. "Where were you, anyway?"

"I told you," he said, feigning irritation, "I was at the New York bureau all night."

"Some reporter you turned out to be," she grumbled.

"I guess I just miss out on all the fun," he sighed. Let Lois get her big, splashy exclusive if it meant keeping his secret safe, he thought. He contented himself with reporting on President Roosevelt's dry, dusty speech to a roomful of stodgy bankers.

The next morning he and Lois were off to Grand Central Station to catch the train back to Metropolis. Lamont and Margo came to see them off. While the Lane sisters were saying their final, private goodbyes, Clark Kent and Lamont Cranston had a few moments together on the platform.

"So, Lamont, I suppose you and Margo will just go back into town after we leave?" Kent asked.

"No, Margo and I thought we'd go out to a little place on Long Island called the Holmwood Arms and spend a few weeks there. It's quiet and restful. The yogis in India taught me how to ignore pain for a short time, but all these adventures have left me pretty banged up and I need to take it easy for awhile."

"So that's it! I was wondering how you managed to come to my rescue after taking that beating from Dietrich and Black," Kent said.

"Yes, and if you don't mind my asking, there's something I've been wondering about you, too, Clark," Cranston replied. "Just what was that green stone of Dietrich's that nearly did you in? What on earth was it?"

"Well, you're not likely to find much of it on Earth, and that's just it. It's Kryptonite, a piece of my home planet. Ordinarily it's harmless, but in your atmosphere, under the influence of your yellow sun, it's lethal to me. My one vulnerability. What's yours?"

"Jealousy," said Lamont Cranston with a rueful smile.

"It's mine, too," Lois said, coming up behind them with Margo in tow. "Honestly, Margo, what did we ever see in a monster like Karl Dietrich?" She shuddered.

"I don't know Lois. It's like someone once said to me. Love makes you do crazy things sometimes."

The public address system announced the imminent departure of the Long Island local that would take Margo and Lamont to Holmwood. After one last parting embrace with her sister, Lois Lane was left standing next to Clark Kent.

"Well, Mr. Kent, I say it's time to go home. We've got an election to cover, remember?" she said.

"Sounds swell, Lois. Only how many times have I asked you to call me Clark? By the way, I hear they have a first class dining car on this train. Whaddaya say I buy you a sandwich and a cup of coffee?"

Lois Lane beamed at him. "I'd like that . . . Clark."

She kept smiling as they boarded the train and the Metropolis Flyer slowly pulled out of Grand Central Station.

**End of Epilogue**

**THE END**


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